


Amalgam

by br42



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Swearing, Vignette, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-09-01 23:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16775092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/br42/pseuds/br42
Summary: A collection of short stories to introduce the characters, races, and setting of Amalgam.





	1. Bonnie - Halflings

**Author's Note:**

> There's a story that has been living in my brain for a very long time. When it was clear this wasn't just going to go away like other fleeting creative impulses, I did a fair amount of ground work in terms of worldbuilding, sketching out the loose plot, brainstorming a cast of characters and the like. Then I sat it down gently and left to work on something far, far away from this idea.
> 
> The reason for stepping (far, far) away was so I could attempt to get better at writing and storytelling, inflicting my novice writer mistakes elsewhere. After nearly two years of weekly updates, [Connie Swap](https://archiveofourown.org/series/630527) is now longer than _War and Peace_ so if I haven't learned from the experience by now, I doubt another 500,000 words is going to help. Folks seem to like it, though, which is nice.
> 
> Since _Connie Swap_ is on break until the start of 2019, I'm dusting off the old notes and writing some exploratory chapters here. They're meant to show the world of this setting through the view of a couple of significant characters. They are vignettes and aren't intended to form a single, linear story. You can read them in any order and it shouldn't make a difference. I'm hoping to add one of these a week until Connie Swap resumes in January.
> 
> There will be mature themes, blood, and at least implied violence in some of these vignettes. Colorful language too.
> 
> I hope you find these interesting.

"Hyup!"

There was a lurch and the familiar creak of wood and axle, the horses nickering their mild protest. 

Bonnie agreed. It was too damn early for Shona to be making noise like that. Didn't she know some of them had been drinking last night? They were in Duhlin, after all. Why the hells else would you go to Duhlin if you weren't suffering from an over-abundance of sobriety.

"Hyup! Hya!"

Gods, now she was just being cruel. It couldn't be later than-

Bonnie sat up and squinted at the light filtering through the canvas flap at the back of the wagon. Oh, she was in a wagon. And she even had her clothes on too. _Good job, past-Bonnie._ This wasn't going to be like that time in Winksford.

Time? Time. Bonnie, aching above the neck and below the waist, climbed over the sacks of whatever-the-fuck and barrels of damn-if-I-care and poked her head outside, squinting in the sunlight.

Wasn't it too early to be mid-afternoon?

Someone cheered. Bonnie checked again to make sure she was wearing her shirt. It was on backwards but it was on. _Good shirt. I always liked you._ Another wave and Bonnie looked over to see some steader lad jogging alongside the caravan. He whooped and blew her a kiss. He looked familiar. A little.

Who the hells was he?

Meh, she could always find out the next time around. Not like he was going to be chasing them much further.

She gave him a wave then ducked back into the wagon, making sure her ponytail didn't catch on a canvas strap. She was in the process of climbing over the whatever-the-fuck and around the damn-if-I-care when a the-hells-is-that looked at her.

Bonnie's hand went to her hip but her knife wasn't there. Neither was her belt. She wasn't sure where her leathers had gotten off to either. _Dammit past-Bonnie! This is all your fault._

Bonnie blinked and realized the-hells-is-that was actually another halfling. A girl, younger than Bonnie, russet hair and freckles. Crying. Huge too, probably near to four-feet tall. 'Course they grew 'em big in Duhlin.

New to the caravan, this one. And scared off her tits from the look of things. Someone had to convince the ginger giant she was going to be alright because, to look at her, you'd think she was going to be served for lunch with an apple in her mouth. Can't have that.

But first, Bonnie needed to answer the Duhlin paradox of drinking all night and waking up thirsty as fuck. It was a mystery Bonnie had explored often, seeking the answer at the bottom of her cup. Many cups, if her hazy recollection of last night was anything to go by.

"Pass me a cup of water, will ya?"

The tearful giant blinked, confused, and looked around.

"No, the barrel towards the middle. So it'll slosh less. Just jimmy the lid off. There should be a cup on the floor next to it."

Bonnie took the proffered tin cup, draining it twice before waving off a third. She looked at the tearful giant, a name tickling at the back of her mind. I-something. "Thanks Ina," she hazarded.

The girl let the cup fall and sniffed. "Aideen."

Fuck. Well, close enough. Whatever the name, her story was as obvious as Bonnie's big-ass ponytail. "Alright, Aideen, grab that sack of grub there. We'll have lunch up front."

The girl went wide-eyed, her hands wringing her skirt. "But I-"

Bonnie silenced her with a gesture. "Nope. It's going to be better if you see this."

Aideen slung the sack over her shoulder and began to climb out the front of the wagon. 

Bonnie started after her, then paused. It was hot out. Better bring the barrel up front too. Aideen had forgotten to close the lid, but she was new, she'd learn. Tossing the cup in first --bloop-- Bonnie shoved the lid back in place. Then, taking a wide stance, she reached around the barrel and hoisted it onto one shoulder, swaying slightly while she found her balance.

The human cooper they'd bought this off of had called it a pony keg. Since they'd topped it off in Duhlin, the whole thing probably weighed seventy pounds, or nearly two Bonnies. Really working the muscles like that caused her stomach to grumble, reminding her she'd missed at least three meals, four if it was time for afternoon tea.

Muttering under her breath, Bonnie clambered out of the wagon and up to the front. Seamus was driving but he didn't pay her any mind, not that he would, the deaf old kook. With a thud, she brought the barrel down and took a seat beside Aideen.

The big gal passed Bonnie a trail biscuit. Hard, salty, and otherwise bland, it was perfect for settling the stomach after a visit to Duhlin. The two ate a late lunch or early tea in relative silence.

Well, except for the steaders tagging along cheering. The one from before saw them, put two fingers in his mouth, and blew a piercing whistle. Bonnie's hangover disapproved. She met the kiss he blew her with a perfunctory wave.

Still facing forward, she leaned over a little. "Know that one?"

Aideen made a face that had nothing to do with the bland food. "Donal Croy."

Bonnie's grin was a feral thing, showing her teeth. "A right prick, eh?"

"And proud of it. Keeps a tally of all the travelers he's talked into his bunk." She turned and gave Bonnie a weak but genuine smile. "You turning him away last night at the mayor's feast was great."

Bonnie smirked and gave a knowing wink, trying hard to hide that she couldn't remember the events in question... along with most of yesterday. Duhlin had breweries like bakemono had teeth.

"Emptying your tankard in his lap was even funnier," and the giant of a girl giggled.

_The hells- Eh, he must've had it coming._

"He's probably trying to save face then," observed Bonnie, studying the jogging steader anew. "Telling the others I was being hard-to-get." Her feral grin returned. "Let's make this a good crossing then. How far away is your rock?"

Aideen's smile faltered. "Rock?"

"You know, the big rock or fence or something that all the little steader boys and girls dare each other to run past." Bonnie shook her head. "Every hick steader town has one. Mine was a big ol' rock you had to slap or it didn't count."

"Oh. It's Kelly's elm," answered the giant quietly.

"Are we going to pass it?"

Aideen nodded.

Rather than answer, Bonnie stood up, steadying herself against the water barrel, grabbed hold of the back of Seamus' seat, and leaned out. Old, deaf Seamus shot her a sour look but didn't take his hands off the reigns.

Donal saw and jogged over, all smiles.

"Hey stud," said Bonnie in a husky voice. "I feel bad about last night."

Donal's eyes sparkled but he affected a pout and crossed his hands over his heart. "Hurt my feelings, that."

Bonnie was aware of noises of disbelief coming from the giant sitting behind her. She fluttered her eyes at Donal and said, "And I want to make up for it with a game."

Donal hopped over a puddle in the road. "I like games."

Bonnie leaned out a little further, her grip on Seamus' seat tightening. "I'm going to take off a piece of clothing-"

A wonder his head didn't come off with a grin that wide.

"-For every wagon-length you can keep up with us past Kelly's elm."

It took him several seconds -- _Not the brightest, our Donal._ \-- but then the smile on his face narrowed.

"I'll start with my shirt," teased Bonnie in that husky voice before she pulled herself back into the wagon.

She sat down feeling pleased with herself.

"He'll do it," said Aideen a few seconds later.

Bonnie had just taken a bite out of a trail biscuit. Unable to answer verbally, she shook her head, her large ponytail swaying with the motion.

"He's pig-headed and horny enough to do it," pressed Aideen.

Bonnie swallowed and wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve. "Naw. There's only one halfling from Duhlin that could win that bet and she's sitting right next to me. Water is wet, hobs are assholes, and steaders don't leave their stead. Now shut up and watch. We're getting close to that tree and you're not going to want to miss this."

Donal wasn't moving quite so energetically as he had been before. He glanced at the tree then over at the wagon. Bonnie suddenly felt the need to stretch, arms up, back arched. Donal's face screwed up into a look of grim determination.

The road led them past a fence, probably the official boundary of Duhlin as whatever stuck-up, cherry-stinking hob lord that owned the county figured it. But the true boundary was that elm they were approaching.

Donal was sweating. In her peripheral vision, Bonnie could see Aideen's brows furrowed as well.

Shona's wagon made it past the elm, then Connor's, and now the horses Seamus was driving were under the shade of it.

Donal looked like he was having a hard time remembering how to breathe. Aideen looked like she was bracing for a punch. When Donal glanced over, Bonnie's hands traveled to the hem of her shirt. She winked.

He made it two paces past the elm, made a yelp like a startled dog, and flung himself back. For a split second Bonnie was worried he would end up under the wagon wheels but he collapsed into the ditch at the roadside, every ounce of bravado gone.

Seamus laughed, a single percussive bark of spiteful mirth. The old wagon driver then spat out the side just before a flask appeared from somewhere in his vest. He took a swig and the flask disappeared back into the recesses of the vest.

He did that at every crossing. Well, not the laugh. That wasn't ritual, just cantankerousness.

Bonnie turned to Aideen, having to crane her neck up a little to take in the russet-headed giantess. "Feels weird, doesn't it?"

The girl nodded distractedly, then stood, climbed the water barrel, and peered over the top of the wagon. Duhlin receded in the background.

Bonnie reached out to steady the barrel under the girl who was seeing her town from afar for the first time.

Several minutes passed before Aideen came back down. Her head swiveled back and forth, staring at the landscape like she'd never seen grass before. Of course, she'd never seen _this_ grass before.

"Steaders don't leave their stead," said Bonnie, clapping a hand on the girl's shoulder. "But you're not a steader. It just took you awhile to grow out of it. Welcome to Shona's caravan." She spread her arms wide, encompassing the train of wagons. "Shona's a bitch, the pay is terrible, half the wagons leak when it rains, and it's going to be the best damn time of your life."

Aideen needed a few seconds to tear her eyes off the horizon. She gave Bonnie a skeptical look. "It doesn't sound that great."

Bonnie smiled. "In four days time we'll be in Winksford. For the first time in your life you're going to be surrounded by halflings you aren't related to. You're going to go a little crazy; all new travelers do. And a tall gal like you? The boys and girls will be climbing all over you."

Aideen's cheeks flushed and she bowed her head as if trying to hide the smile that was threatening to blossom. When Bonnie filled a cup of water from the barrel and handed it to her, she seized it in both hands and drank deeply.

 _Better make sure she's not wearing anything she's attached to when we get there. Not if her first time in Winksford goes like mine,_ thought Bonnie, idly patting her clothes and noticing, again, that her shirt was on backwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In stark contrast to the freewheeling, hedonic spree that are the halflings, the next update should show us something about the dwarves.


	2. Realgar - Dwarves

"Hold still, lad," said the elder dwarf not unkindly as he retrieved the lancet from his bag. "Just until the second digit and we should be done."

Realgar nodded, trying to show his courage. It was an hour before dawn but the dark hid nothing from dwarven eyes.

The lancet bit into the side of the middle finger on his left hand. He didn't flinch but a brief hiss of breath gave him away. Shame welled in his chest.

Slowly at first and then in a faster flow, the blood streamed out into the bowl held below. To encourage it, Realgar massaged the finger at the base, squeezing gently just above the knuckle and pulling upward. It made the throbbing worse but the bowl was filling.

Slowly the tip of his finger changed, flesh gradually becoming stone as the animating fluid in his veins escaped. The digit felt numb, cold. If the cut had been to the tip of his finger, the transformation would have sealed the wound. The cut, however, was well-placed and the bleeding continued, the stone spreading slowly downward.

Copper wafers the size of Realgar's thumbnail went into the bowl. A holy symbol, a simple thing of stone and uncut quartz, worn on a chain around the elder's neck and normally kept tucked into his clothes, was brought out. Visible... provided you could see in the dark.

The blood stopped, the wound finally petrified shut. The finger wasn't actually any heavier but it felt like it was. The cut was visible as a thin line in the stone.

The elder dwarf intoned as he waved his hand over the red-strained wafers. "This metal has a lineage that can be traced to the place of our race's forging, Alloyed and Alloyed anew. So too the blood of this dwarf, Realgar Nameless. Imbue this metal with the animating warmth, Father of Stone."

There was no glow, no radiating heat, no aura of the divine presence. This was the Father of Stone's workings, not some kobold's sorcery. Results were his trade, not showmanship.

Antimony Cunife, elder and the closest thing to an ollam Realgar might ever meet, touched the stony digit while muttering an incantation. The stone became pliable, clay-like, and with a wipe of Antimony's thick thumb, the thin line was gone.

Already the blood was returning, stone slowly giving way to flesh. By the time the site of the cut was exposed once more, the skin would be unbroken.

Dwarves knew little of mending flesh, but working stone they knew very well indeed.

The wafers were removed and cleaned. With a bronze-tipped stylus, Antimony etched 'R' on each. A dwarf could not be sustained by his own warmth; the wafers were useless to Realgar.

The elder pulled a pouch from his bag. From it he handed Realgar a wafer of tin, an 'A' etched on the surface. "To make up for what you gave. Good lad. Now be along, the others will be anxious for your return from the market."

Realgar took it and popped it in his mouth, the metal crunching satisfyingly between his molars. Maybe he imagined it but his heart felt livelier in his chest. He gave the elder a respectful nod and then turned for the gate. Stepping into the light of a torch, he waved at the sentry waiting along the wall, the last digit of his finger still stone.

* * *

A bulging pack on his back; two courier bags loaded with goods on either flank, the straps crisscrossing his chest; a large bundle in his arms. Realgar found the weight comforting rather than tiring as he trundled roughly eastward.

It did make crossing from one end of Kusatsu to the other difficult, though, the streets choked with foot traffic. At least he didn't have to worry about thieves, wearing Akizuki's livery. Realgar's lord was minor as nobles went but he was cozy with the magistrate.

Realgar walked near the gibbets to avoid the thickest of the crowds. Some of the thieves from last time still hung, sun-bleached husks swaying in the breeze.

Traffic ground to a halt while an orcish shepherd drove her flock through an intersection. Realgar muttered into his beard, eyes darting between the sheep and the direction of the enclave. The flock's progress was slow so, with a huff, he set down his bundle and tried to straighten his tunic. The thing was tailored for a human and so fit him poorly: too tight around the torso, neck, and arms, yet so long he'd sheared off six inches or more of fabric from the bottom. While his clothing was ill-fitting and worn, his armor shone in the morning light, every scuff buffed out, the half-plate conforming to his frame just so.

Akizuki liked that his soldier made his own armor. Armor was expensive. Raw materials, less so, and Realgar's hob lord clutched the purse strings more tightly than most.

Reaching into a pocket, Realgar pulled out a bag of seasoned nuts he'd purchased while in the market. It also contained shavings of copper, lead, and zinc, though he'd added those himself. He retrieved a handful and snacked on it, nut and metal pulverized loudly and inexorably by dwarven teeth.

A strain of music interrupted his snacking, the dwarf looking for the source. On a street corner opposite the ambulatory river of wool, an elven slave performed. The song was unfamiliar. _Mandolin and mutton in ewe-minor,_ he thought as bleating momentarily drowned out the performance.

When the flock passed, Realgar was quick to pocket his snack, hoist his bundle, and cross. A crowd, mostly children, were gathered around the elf. The slave's handler, a sour-faced human with a mustache like a magistrate, glared at Realgar, silently judging the dwarf for not parting with a coin or two.

Realgar walked on, weaving and shoving, thick legs bearing him and his bounty towards Akizuki's holdings. The other dwarves would be anxious for his return, confined as they were to the enclave. They were prisoners, after all, like every other dwarf in the hobs' vast khanate.

Every dwarf except Realgar.

* * *

Of the three guards, only Sikt bothered to look up from their game as Realgar strode forward. The sho-bakemono had been pulled from her usual night watch and it was clear she was finding the daylight difficult to bear even while hiding under the wide brim of her hat.

"Reger," she said in heavily accented Hob. She was at least a foot shorter than Realgar, so all he saw beneath the brim of her jingasa was a toothy grin framed in orange-brown skin.

He gave her a curt nod and walked through the open palisade gates. It was a long walk across the courtyard to the enclave's door, and a longer wait while the seneschal, an officious human named Junto, was fetched to open the way. That the enclave was locked, hidden behind walls that were higher than the ones that encircled the manor grounds, gave Realgar a perverse kind of pride.

Dwarves were valuable.

"Keep them quiet," hissed Junto, fitting the large key to the lock. "The magistrate is taking tea with his lordship."

Realgar gave a noncommittal grunt, grip shifting on the bundle in his arms.

Junto pulled the door open and glared at him. "You are a member of this house. It is your lord's will," he said as forcefully as he could in a loud whisper. "Do your job, _soldier_ , and keep. Them. Quiet."

Realgar knew his strengths and lying wasn't one of them. Nor, for that matter, was persuading his fellow dwarves. Face like stone, Realgar walked past Junto, leaving the muttering seneschal behind. The door slid shut and, if Realgar wasn't imagining it, it sounded like the lock was being engaged as quietly as the heavy mechanism would allow.

He was playing up a stereotype, but the infamous dwarven reticence was just so _convenient_ sometimes. He really wondered how the other races made do without it.

Inside, his first glance went to the smithy. Stibarsen Valleriite was busy, but it was detailed work that left the forge and anvil free. He felt a knot in his shoulders relax slightly. He'd have to wait for the magistrate to leave, but the promise of losing himself in his craft later was soothing.

"Hey! No-name!" said an abrasive voice. Galena Corundum had been loitering in the shade of the wall, her cheeks flushed and an open jug held in her one hand. She staggered into the light and jabbed the stump of her arm in Realgar's direction. "You get my drink?" Some liquid slopped out of the jug as she gesticulated. "I'm almost out of the swill you got me last time."

Her dwarven was so slurred he almost couldn't follow it, though admitting it would only earn him further abuse.

Realgar glowered but set down his bundle and reached for one of his courier bags. Where had he put it? Head down, he smelled her breath before he saw her walk into his peripheral vision.

"Where is it, No-name? Huh?" she taunted. "Maybe you should be called- called, eh, 'No-brain!'"

She was audibly pleased with this display of wit.

Realgar bit his tongue, literally, found the jug of ale in his pack, and held it out to Galena's stump. "Here. But hold it with both hands or you'll spill it."

The look she gave him could tarnish silver.

"Realgar," called Stibarsen, the toolsmith hustling over from the smithy. The dwarf always moved like he was in a hurry, his leather apron flapping as he went. "Did you make it by Touma's shop?"

Galena positioned the old jug in the crook of one arm, then picked up the ale with her hand. She spat and stalked off, her direction wavering a little.

Realgar nodded, once more rummaging through his courier bags. "I did. He sold off the last of the old stock and is haggling with a buyer for the next collection."

"Did you get the-"

Realgar cut him off by holding out a ledger. "Yes, I got the receipts."

Prisoners couldn't have money --they might bribe a guard and escape, or so Junto said-- but what they earned while captured could go toward their ransom. You could earn a lot ransoming a dwarf back to his clan.

Stibarsen was determined not to remain in the Khanate a minute longer than he had to.

"Touma said-" Realgar pulled a face, dreading this next part. "Touma said that he'd fetch a higher price if you'd add more, uh, ornamentation."

The dwarf raised his face from the ledger, giving Realgar a neutral look, the numbers distracting him from Realgar’s hesitancy. "I can do ornamentation. What did he have in mind?"

"Bronze filigree. Pentagons." Realgar fidgeted with his tunic. "Scales."

Stibarsen's cheeks became a match for Galena's and the toolsmith's breath was coming like the billows in the forge. "That no-name gravel sucker-" he started, voice rising in volume as he went, "wants to pass off my craftsmanship as _kobold-made?!"_

That last part was loud enough to startle a few birds from the trees.

"Yeah!" came a call from the shade of the wall. "No-name bastards should be gutted and choked with their own entrails." Galena winked at Realgar and raised her jug in mock salute.

Somewhere in the distance Realgar imagined the seneschal striking the house slaves in his frustration.

As Stibarsen railed against the Khanate's inordinate fondness for kobold-wares, egged on by Galena, a pair of dwarves walked over.

Coltan Bixbite was round in a way Realgar had never seen a person be before. From ankle to shoulder, the dwarf extended _out_ as much as he extended up, resulting in a waist that almost went past arm's-reach. If he'd ever seen his toes, it was only with the aid of a mirror. Maybe several. He dressed in fine clothing --though the elbows and knees were showing the signs of repeated wear-- including a belt with gem-studded buckle that circled his considerable circumference.

He and Nisil Hafnon were the last two dwarves to arrive in the enclave and Coltan had been captured with luggage intact.

Realgar already had the bag of uncut gemstones ready. Coltan gave him a friendly nod before untying and withdrawing a few of the contents, a meaty hand retrieving a jewelers' loupe from his vest to inspect them. Like the still-raging Stibarsen, Coltan worked to expedite his ransoming, using Realgar as a proxy to buy uncut gemstones that would be cut and polished and sold at a profit.

Along the wall a few guards, hobs, peered down, drawn by the ruckus.

"That's enough, Stibarsen," said a resonant voice. "No one is forcing you to add kobold iconography to your wares."

Antimony Cunife, acolyte ollam-turned-warrior and now captive elder, wasn't any larger or stronger than the others, but there was something about him that seemed _more_ , like the centuries had compressed a giant into a dwarf's frame. He wore rugged clothes under a simple chainmail shirt and he always kept his bag of tools in reach.

Stibarsen went quiet. Everyone listened when Antimony spoke.

"Feh. Let him rail. The only dwarf-craft this lot deserve is an axe through the skull!"

Well, almost everyone.

"Galena, you're drawing the guards again," an edge of warning audible in Antimony's voice.

She looked up and seemed emboldened by the audience rather than cowed. "Hey, you cherry-stinking hob bastards! We sent your army running when you invaded the Chalk Hills clans!" She shook her stump at them as if it was still clutching a weapon. "Your precious khan's grandson perished in our halls! What do you think of that?!"

Antimony sighed and tugged at his beard. "If they think anything it's, 'What is that drunken idiot yelling about?' They don't speak Dwarven."

Galena blinked, then turned back to the sentries. Before she could inflict drunken Hob on the ears of those present, Antimony raised a hand to where the holy symbol rested under his shirt and said in a commanding voice, "Don't."

Galena's words died in her throat.

"Your pride could earn us punishments or fines. Clan before dwarf,” he said, the weight of authority heavy in those words. “And until you return to the Chalk Hills, this is your clan." Then, in a softer tone, he said, "You fought. They bled. You bled. You've earned your honor and your name. Go to the shrine and pray for the patience to see it written in the halls of home."

The one-armed soldier opened and closed her mouth before she gave a respectful nod. "Yes eld-"

There was a shout from beyond the enclave followed by the sound of the heavy lock being opened. For a moment Realgar worried the magistrate had taken offense at the noise and ordered their silence. Such orders usually meant removal of the tongue... if the magistrate was feeling merciful.

Then the door swung open and Junto and the three guards from the entrance hustled in, a litter supporting a prone figure carried between them. With a grunt, the litter was lowered to the ground.

A dwarf, clothes ragged, one arm and half her face stone.

"Heal him. Save him. Akizuki orders it," huffed the winded seneschal.

Dead dwarves were far less valuable than live ones.

Antimony bulled through the guards to get beside the litter, tiny Sikt being knocked flat in the process, her wide hat rolling like a wheel before tumbling flat several yards away.

"Soldier," barked Junto. "Your lord-"

"Get them out of here!" bellowed Antimony while he felt for the dwarf's vitals.

Realgar jolted into motion, ushering the seneschal and guards out, helping the half-blinded Sikt retrieve her hat. "We'll do everything we can to save her. I will pass word to lord Akizuki as soon as we know her condition better."

"Her?" said one of the guards, looking at the prone figure in confusion.

Junto, however, ignored that and said, "You tell me, I tell lord Akizuki."

Realgar nodded dismissively. "Now, what happened? Who is she?"

While the others started talking over one another, he spared a glance back. He saw Stibarsen and Antimony carrying the litter toward one of the low buildings for privacy, the others trailing after. Realgar felt a weight settle in his stomach. Privacy meant, well, it meant another stone for the shrine.

* * *

"...gone. Once the heart petrifies-"

Conversation ended and all eyes turned to the entrance as Realgar walked in. 

"The enclave is sealed. It’s just us," he said.

The others relaxed, though Galena glared at him as if trying to push him out the door with the force of her gaze. The others were crowded around a table that was holding the partially petrified woman, but there was a bubble of space around the elder as he worked.

"Who was she?" asked Nisil. The dwarf had been a farmer, tending the mushrooms and lichen that recycled a clan's waste. He had done wonders to improve the paltry crop growing in an unlit shack within the enclave. He radiated timidity, making him seem shortest among the assembly despite being taller than most. He had pale hair on his head and beard and his eyes looked perpetually watery, a combination of his trade and his grief.

The Rust River clans were besieged by the Khanate and his wife was a soldier.

Realgar shook his head. "They don't know and the slaver who sold her has already left town."

Antimony, meanwhile, was making incisions, blood running from the deceased through grooves in the table to a wafer-filled basin below. This was a _specialized_ table.

"Where's her gear? That'd tell us, most like," Stibarsen remarked.

"It was lost in the fight that injured her. Dai-bakemono raid, they said."

Stibarsen's expression soured. "Lost? Stolen, more like. Daibos don't kill for loot, they kill to see you dead. She was injured and her gear taken by the slaver when she couldn’t fend him off." He spat. "Damn scavengers."

"Anyone recognize the decorations on the boots?" asked Antimony.

Everyone leaned forward over the slowly petrifying dwarf. Triangles made of lead were worked into the leather.

"'Asses kicked’ and then there’s a tally,” said Galena, interpreting the markings. She smiled widely. “I like this woman!”

Antimony nodded without looking up from his work. “The triangles are Miner’s Cant, but I don’t recognize the dialect. She can’t be from the east then.”

Everyone looked at Nisil, who hailed from the south. He shook his head.

“She looks like a Terne,” said Galena, her tone thoughtful. “Knew a Terne. Kicked a lot of ass, Terne did.”

“No holds out west, what with the Flesh Wastes. Maybe northerly? Red Gorge clan?” offered Coltan, the former-merchant more widely traveled than most.

“Nepheline family reigns in Red Gorge,” said Antimony. “They’re numerous there, or so I’ve heard.”

There were nods around the table. Antimony was approaching his third century. You could hear a lot in three hundred years.

There was a moment of quiet as all mourned maybe-Terne Nepheline of possibly-the Red Gorge clan.

Antimony looked up. Realgar started toward the door but the elder shook his head. “No, I want you to see this.” He turned to Stibarsen and said, “Guard the entrance. You know this well already.”

The elder looked every dwarf still present in the eye, a gaze Realgar found difficult to hold. “If any dwarf, name known or not, should fall, you salvage the heartstone. You salvage the heartstone and you keep it a secret from everyone not of the kin. The other races think we drink the blood of the fallen, that we eat their petrified flesh, that dwarven magic can extract gold and silver from the corpse. Lies, and lies you will perpetuate if you must to keep the secret.”

While the elder spoke, Nisil withdrew a short knife, one he used to cut the through the tough stalks of his mushrooms, and cut away the woman’s shirt, knife rasping against stone flesh once or twice.

With chisel and incantation, Antimony set to the grim task of parting flesh-as-stone.

Minutes passed. Then the elder stepped back, wiping the grit and powder from his hands. Everyone leaned forward to peer at the cavity that had been gouged into the woman’s chest.

It was unassuming. To all appearances it was a quartz crystal. So cheap, if one had made it into his bag, Coltan would have thrown it away as not worth his time and accused the merchant of cheating him. It was no bigger than the last digit of the little finger, which meant Terne hadn’t lived to see her first century.

Dwarves are born stone. Cut properly, the heartstone from an elder like Antimony could be used to make fifty, even a hundred babies flesh. The hobs weren’t holding an elder ransom, they were holding an entire generation ransom. 

“I could cut it into four,” said Coltan. His voice was low, reverent even. “Five if the stone grew into either ventricle.”

It was more than he’d get if Realgar or Galena were on that table.

Antimony shook his head. “No. Cut, it might draw attention. I will take it and add it to the others.” He withdrew his holy symbol, the cheap stones set within taking on a new meaning. “I am too valuable to accost, and my holy symbol too cheap to be worth stealing.” With a final incantation, the flesh-as-stone was made soft and the quartz pulled free, then pressed into the amulet among three other stones.

Galena, Coltan, Nisil, Realgar: each of them was given another long look, as if Antimony could carve the lesson into their being with his gaze.

Then he sighed and suddenly looked very tired, very old. “If I’m needed, I’ll be at the shrine.” He took the red-filled basin with him, his work not yet done.

Realgar stayed and helped the others, stone ground down to meal for the mushrooms, a block cut free to be added to the shrine.

Galena worked alongside him without issue, a rare thing indeed.

* * *

According to Junto, Akizuki was livid at the dwarf’s death and Realgar’s punishment for failure would be both swift and terrible.

It never came. Realgar had long since learned to ignore most of Junto’s threats masked as Akizuki’s.

Finally the magistrate departed and Realgar was able to lose himself in the ringing of the forge, a breastplate slowly taking shape. It wasn’t for anyone, though Akizuki would find an owner for it soon enough. No, he’d been told his mother had made armor during her time in the enclave, and that was reason enough for his work.

Khanate law was that only the first child of each litter could be enslaved, the rest made citizens. That most races only had one child at a time wasn’t lost on the hobs that dictated Khanate law. But dwarves weren’t part of the Khanate: they were prisoners, not slaves, and certainly not citizens. Realgar had been born within the enclave, something unprecedented, and Akizuki’s friendly magistrate had made the controversial ruling that Realgar now belonged to lord Akizuki.

He was elevated from slave to soldier so he could be allowed to work iron. Everyone knew that dwarves worked iron, that the first khan had stolen the secret of iron working from the dwarves and conquered much of the world with it. For a non-soldier to work or wield iron was death in the Khanate and general suspicion alone would have gotten Realgar executed were he not a soldier.

One of the old guards had remembered the name his mother had used for him. Realgar. But not the last name, nor her name, nor her clan. There were no records. Akizuki had been paid and that was enough.

Wiping his brow, Realgar pulled the necklace out from beneath his tunic. Six wafers were strung along it: four lead, two copper. He’d saved the last of them after Antimony had been captured in the eastern campaign and brought to the enclave. Whoever she was, his mother had left enough for Realgar to survive that long... though it had been close.

Nearby Stibarsen was tallying in his ledger, no doubt calculating the ransom that remained for him. The tools he’d crafted that day did have bronze filigree and pentagons, Realgar noted. No scales, but Stibarsen would bend more than most if it meant getting home sooner.

There was no ransom for Realgar. He’d asked once and Akizuki himself had struck him for the question instead of delegating such matters to Junto.

The necklace went back into the ill-fitting tunic and Realgar returned to his work, the breastplate taking shape.

She had made armor and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expect a bit more levity and a _lot_ more vulgarity next week when we learn about Vex and the bakemono.


	3. Vex - Bakemono

“You fuck-faced, buck-toothed, nut-stinking, tree rat piece of shit! You drop that _now_ or I will use your bloody pelt to wipe my ass!”

The squirrel didn’t seem particularly intimidated by Vex’s tirade and scampered a little higher up the tree, half a sheet of paper traveling with it.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, damnation, and fuck!”

Vex paced as she swore, the light rain wicking off her dense fur. Face and palms aside, no skin was visible, but the fur was the same color as the green and mottled brown sho-bakemono beneath.

She spotted a rock. Grabbing it, she looked up at the rodent that was trying to line its nest with her gods damned notes and chucked the stone at it.

It struck the trunk probably three feet off the mark. The squirrel stared down from its branch and barked at her.

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up you little nut-humper-” Her hands had gone to the tool belt she wore and was rapidly fashioning a sling out of the spare bits of materials she kept therein. With a final bit of knotwork, she grabbed another rock and fitted it to the sling’s cradle, turning back to her treeborne opponent. “-Laugh and laugh at silly old Vex all you want. Just-” She transferred the sling to her right hand and began spinning it. “-Don’t. _Move.”_

The stone was loosed at ‘move’ and whistled through the air. The squirrel, rather than listen to Vex, repositioned so that the bulk of the tree’s trunk was between it and the sho-bakemono below. The stone missed anyway, knocking a few leaves loose while it landed off somewhere in the distance.

“Shit!” She ran a hand through the fur on her head. Then, looking at her damp palm, she seemed to notice the rain for the first time and added, “Double-flaming-dragon shit! It’s getting wet too!”

The tree trunk was wider around than Vex was tall and had no lower branches she could climb. Not that climbing after a squirrel was a particularly brilliant plan. Maybe a halfling could pull it off, _the athletic bastards_ , but Vex’s strengths started with her head and ended at her mouth. Everything lower was pretty uninspiring.

“Fuck it,” she muttered and began gathering as many stones as she could, tucking them into the pockets hanging off her belt. “I’ll hit the little shit eventually.”

* * *

It was thirty stones later. Thirty misses and Vex had passed the point of anger, of hope, and was now running on spite. Unfortunately for the squirrel, she had a lot of spite.

And rocks.

It was pointless really. The ink was crappy, little more than dark mud, and would have long since ran past the point of legibility.

Vex fitted another stone to the sling and spun it up. _But I’ll be damned if I-_

Her arm went slack, the stone falling harmlessly to the ground as she watched a nine-foot-tall, brown-and-orange giant silently stride over and pluck the distracted, tired squirrel from the branch.

“Oh, hey Lek,” Vex said in an exhausted tone. “Thanks for the-”

The squirrel, and the paper, went straight in the o-bakemono’s mouth. _Crunch._

“Gah!” Vex jumped like she’d been stung. The three-foot-tall sho-bakemono ran over and began kicking ineffectually at a furry ankle as wide around as Vex’s torso. “No! Spit that out, you lummox!”

There was a grunt of confusion somewhere in the canopy of o-bakemono overhead and then a glob of fur, blood, and saliva dropped to the forest floor.

Vex hurried over and extracted the much-battered piece of paper, more pulp than not at this point. Still, paper was hard to find and spit (and bits of squirrel) could be cleaned off.

There was another grunt and a hand, one big enough that Vex could have ridden in it, lowered to eye level. Lek didn’t even have to stoop to do it, being hunched, with arms nearly as long as she was tall. Vex dropped the crushed and mangled squirrel into the palm.

“Chew well,” she said. “The little bastard deserves it.”

 _Plus, you don’t have the teeth for meat,_ she thought but didn’t bother to say.

She was probably a hundred feet away when she heard a deep voice say behind her. “Daibos. I saw.”

Vex’s shoulders slumped. “Fuuuck,” she said, the swear more an exhalation than anything, like she was deflating and epithets rather than air were what escaped.

* * *

Vex had a blade pointed at her eye. She could see the weapon was well cared for --sharp, oiled, all signs of rust ground away-- but it was notched and scratched enough that if you cut a straight line with it, you’d probably get puzzle pieces instead.

All her tools as well as the notes she’d _thought_ were carefully hidden were spread out on the ground a few feet away. Apparently not hidden from squirrels or dai-bakemonos. Fuck.

Anything you could stab or cut with had been taken.

“What does this say?” asked the leader daibo, gesturing below. She was twice Vex’s height, all muscle and coiled strength beneath a layer of piecemeal armor. Hers was a body shaped for violence as surely as any blade.

“Nothing interesting.”

The jagged blade moved closer, filling much of Vex’s vision.

“They’re just notes!” she pleaded. “I write things down, things I remember, things I think about! You want to kill stuff and this is nothing about that, really!”

A long minute passed as the leader considered what to make of that.

A daibo, lesser in stature, equipment, and rank to the one pointing a knife at Vex, appeared soundlessly about twenty feet distant. All of bakemono kind could move quietly, but daibos did it with _grace_.

The lackey then trod heedlessly over the papers in her way.

Vex flinched as if each step cut like the jagged knife threatened to.

“Wagon. Five people plus horses,” said the lackey once closer, pointing in a direction.

“Prey,” said the daibo leader. “Any kin present?” and she gestured dismissively toward Vex, the knife tip scratching lightly against a green-and-brown eyelid.

The lackey shook her head. “Halflings and humans.”

The leader grinned wide. In her smile, without pattern or order, incisors were vying with canines alongside serrated teeth that’d be at home in the maw of a shark. “Meat.”

The daibo’s pupils had narrowed to pinpricks, her nostrils flaring as they tried to find the smell of something non-bakemono to kill. The knife went away but a smile that was just as jagged and dangerous replaced it. “Goodbye little one with thoughts,” she said dismissively, the shakedown forgotten.

With a gesture from their leader, all six of the daibos turned and left in the direction of their new victims.

Vex didn’t move until twenty breaths had passed after the last had vanished soundlessly into the foliage. Moving slowly, as though old and weathered by time, the sho-bakemono picked up her notes and scattered ingredients. The tool belt was much lighter than before.

She got them out of the rain and the damp and then slumped against a tree. Sullenly she uprooted a weed that happened to be in reach. A caterpillar crawling across it was popped in her mouth. Then, in a desultory fashion, the leaves, stem, and roots of the plant followed after.

Vex scowled at the world over her snack, not surprised but still bitter after each new setback.

Early the next morning she went to the ransacked wagon hoping for useful scraps. She found blood-stained dirt and smoking embers, the wagon torched after the daibos had finished their slaughter.

Vex gathered up the scraps of canvas and bits of leather that had escaped the flame. Then, using a stick, she probed the ashes and embers, fishing out the nails. Her tool belt was a little heavier by the end.

* * *

“-that’s the plan.” Vex turned to face her audience, hands clasped behind her back. “Any questions?”

Four o-bakemonos looked back at her, expressions various shades of placid or puzzled. The silence was broken only with the sound of chewing, as the giants never really stopped eating.

Lek was the first to respond. Typical. She was the brainiest of the lot and they usually let her do the talking when the tiny sho-bakemono was asking them questions. “What about daibo?”

“Gone for two months now.” Vex rubbed her eyelid. “Trust me, I’ve been looking.”

Jup was next, the obo idly stripping the leaves off a nearby tree limb as she spoke. “Why smash wagons?” Her pronounced underbite and heavy brow made her look like she was in a perpetual scowl.

_Because I’m out of fuckin’ supplies and I can feel my brain atrophy as we speak._

“Because,” said Vex. “The wagons will be hauling feed out to the hob town of Hirata so they can sell it to the orc tribes. The orcs need it so their herds can eat over the winter.”

Kwi, a runt at a mere seven feet tall, looked anxious. She refused to stray from Jup or Lek which meant all the best vegetation was gobbled up by her larger peers. Kwi had taken to gnawing roots and bark as a result, her incisors becoming so large she could scarcely fit them behind her lips.

“What’f feed?” Her buck teeth also meant she lisped.

Leaf nodded. The obo was huge, probably eleven feet tall and unusually uniform in coloration, an immense, brown defoliator. She’d wandered into their group from deeper in the forest and didn’t know how to talk. However old she was, she’d obviously spent the early parts of her life completely isolated from bakemono kind.

Plants weren’t great conversationalists.

When asked her name, she’d hold out a leaf. Then she’d eat it.

Vex, a tiny general before her troops, replied, “Feed is hay.”

That got their attention.

“Oates.”

Eyes widened.

Then, slowly, as if savoring the moment, Vex said, “Corn.”

Jup, Lek, and Kwi cheered at that, a basso sound more felt than heard. Leaf looked at the others’ reaction and then joined in, ripping a tree branch probably six inches thick out of the trunk and beating it against the ground like a drum.

* * *

The hob samurai sidestepped the greatclub, a blow that shook the ground with its force, and gutted Lek. Lek stumbled, a large hand going to her ruined midsection, which brought her throat in reach to be sliced open.

The hob stepped just out of range of the giant’s collapse, wiped the blood free of the blade with a rag, then sheathed the sword, all in stoic silence.

Two halflings had Vex held tightly, which was overkill. One of them was more than strong enough to slap seven shades of snot out of her. Vex would rather fight a human than a halfling if given the choice.

Not that she'd been given one.

Ignoring the great quantities of obo blood coating his armor, scabbard, and, well, everywhere, the samurai marched over to Vex. One hand moved a bunch, there were a couple of quiet grunts, and then an expectant silence.

Vex stared up at the warrior that had taken down (or in Kwi’s case, chased off) four o-bakemonos almost single-handedly. “Can you, uh, repeat… whatever that was?”

A human with a bushy beard and smile lines in his face said, “He wants to know where the dai-bakemonos are?”

Vex slumped as much as the deceptively strong hands holding her would allow. “Fuuuck.”

* * *

“What’s your name?” the human with the beard asked in Halfling.

Vex, sitting in a wagon that reeked of hay, wrists bound in stocks of metal-reinforced wood, snorted dramatically then spat a phlegmy glob in the man’s direction. The chain connecting the stocks to the wagon itself rattled with the movement.

For some reason, she wasn’t feeling particularly talkative.

The human wasn’t so easily dissuaded. “Come on. It’s a long way to the magistrate’s. Weeks of travel. You may as well enjoy what company is available before you’re interrogated and most likely executed.”

Someone speaking of torture and executions with boisterous cheer actually made Vex feel a little nostalgic.

“Please, talk to Baros or he’ll talk to us instead,” said a grinning halfling.

Another chimed in, adding, “He never shuts up. He even talks in his sleep.”

Vex shook her head. “Glad I don’t have to-”

The first one jumped back in, gesturing to the hay. “And he sleeps in this wagon. Have fun with that.”

“Is it too late for the samurai to just disembowel me?” asked Vex, earning a couple of chuckles from the others.

None of them had gotten hurt because of that thrice-damned samurai being there. If one of them had gotten crushed, they probably wouldn't be feeling so chummy toward their captive sho-bakemono.

“Yes, yes, very funny,” said Baros with easy humor. “But I’m afraid the honorable samurai has left to track down the daibos, so you’ll have to keep your bowels on the inside for the time being. Now, your name?”

“Given name’s Fuh,” answered Vex.

“Fuh. Oh, are you from the Khanate? And what’s your surname?” asked Baros with genuine curiosity while rummaging through a courier bag he had slung over his shoulder.

“‘Koff’ with two effs.”

“Fuh Ko- Oh.”

The halflings tittered.

He had pulled a journal out of his bag and laid it across his lap. He’d been reaching for his ink and quill but paused.

Vex eyed the writing supplies with naked hunger.

Baros shook his head and closed the book. “Well, maybe tomorrow you’ll-” and he began transferring the journal back to his bag.

 _“Vex,”_ barked Vex, startling the others with the sudden intensity. “Name’s Vex. We can talk.” She eyed the book once more, then her eyes went to the fetters at her wrists. “I’ll talk all you want, Baros, provided you keep giving me sticks.”

The human quirked his head to the side. “Sticks?”

“Sticks.” Vex licked her lips. “I’m hungry.”

The look of bearded incredulity continued. “You want to eat… sticks?” Baros gestured at the yellowing feed lining the bed of the wagon. “We have hay.” He then waved at the orc driving the wagon up front. “Jerky too.”

“Sticks, Baros.” Vex fixed her eyes on his. “Like you said, it’s a long way to the magistrate’s. You’re going to need a lot of sticks.”

Baros gave her an intrigued look. “That assumes you have stories worth that many sticks, Vex.”

“Beardy, I’ll gnaw down the whole gods damned forest.”

* * *

Baros was muttering in his sleep.

Vex ground a stick between teeth and felt stick and tooth both crack. It was a brief, sharp pain, but so familiar she didn’t consciously register it anymore. She set the stick aside, then reached in and pulled the shattered tooth out, long fingers reaching easily despite the stocks on her wrists.

Sharp, meant for cutting and tearing. She was a little surprised it was in there; she hadn’t eaten much meat since living in the forest. Better to break it now so a proper bark-grinding molar could take its place. Hurry things along.

She tossed the tooth into the back of her mouth and swallowed, a brief feeling of contentment welling up. More gravel for the gizzard, and there was just something _satisfying_ about teeth.

Bakemonos were peculiar like that.

Then the events of the day caught up with her in a rush, the bubble of contentment bursting dramatically.

With one last look around to confirm all were sleeping or elsewhere, Vex allowed the grief to pour out.

She fell asleep gnawing on the stick, mumbling Lek, Jup, Kwi, and Leaf’s names into her hay.

* * *

“How old are you?”

“Don’t know.” Vex took a bite out of a thin stick and crunched it noisily between her teeth.

“Could you guess?”

“Not really.” More crunching.

Baros furrowed his brows but pressed on. “Where are you from?”

“Don’t know.”

Baros laid his quill down and fixed Vex with a look, his usual good-natured expression absent. “If you’re not going to cooperate then-”

Vex spat a wad of wood pulp over the wagon’s side. “Hey, I’m not jerking you around, dipshit. If any bakemono tells you they know how old they are, they’re lying. We start out small and dumb, animals really, and it isn’t until we get big enough that we kind of wake up for the first time. So I’ve got no fucking idea, and besides which I was living underground when I did wake. Can’t count the days or the seasons in a fucking subterranean mushroom field.”

“Oh, you’re from the Underdark,” he said, all enthusiasm again, pausing to take a note. “What’s-”

“Hang on,” interrupted Vex, the sho-bakemono leaning forward as much as her chain would allow. “You’re fucking writing it wrong. That means ‘deep night’ which sure as shit isn’t the word for Underdark. That’s for the long nights you get at the icy ends of the planet.”

Baros looked at Vex, squinting, then at his writing, then back to Vex. “You write? You write Elven?”

Vex gestured for Baros to reorient so she could see the paper better without having to lean against her restraints. He did.

“Better than you do, apparently.” Wetting a stick with her mouth, she swept the hay-strewn wagon floor and then drew some flowing script in the dust. “See this? That’s how you write 'Underdark'. In Summer Elven they combine the words for ‘winter’ and ‘home’ because that’s where the fucking winter elves live. In Winter Elven, it’s called, ‘the space’ and it’s written like this.”

Baros and one of the halflings gawked, the latter asking, “What do they call the surface?”

Vex drew it. “‘Bright space,’ though bright means a couple different things in Winter Elven, most bad.”

Baros was writing hurriedly. After a bit he glanced up. “How do you know all this?”

Vex swatted a fat fly that was buzzing around. She nearly popped it in her mouth but then she thought better of it, throwing it over the side a touch remorsefully.

Sticks tasted fucking awful.

Surly, she said, “Because Vex is ‘assistant’ in Winter Elven.”

It was actually ‘experiment’ or ‘experimental subject’ depending on context, but Baros sure as shit didn’t know better.

* * *

“What’s his deal, anyway?”

The orc, Hulagu, looked back into the wagon. Baros was visible writing in his journal. “Him?” he asked, his Halfling accented.

Vex switched to Orcish. “[No, I mean the fucking horse.]”

“[Oh, it’s a percheron gelding, twelve seasons old. Maybe a shire grandmare judging from the-]”

Vex scowled. “[I didn’t actually mean the damn horse. I meant that asshole,]” and she jabbed a thumb in Baros’ direction.

“[I know, but I’d rather talk about the horse.]”

Baros cleared his throat but didn’t look up from his writing. “[I speak Orcish too, you know.]”

“[We all do, dipshit. You want a gold coin or something?]” answered Vex.

Hulagu smiled a carnivore’s smile, though the teeth were uniform compared to a dai-bakemono. “[He’s a skald, or wants to be. No instrument-]”

“[Broken when a ferry's contents shifted and my luggage was crushed,]” clarified Baros.

“[-so he’s not all _that_ bad. Talks like a rooster that thinks every minute is dawn, though.]”

Baros blotted the paper to keep the ink from running and then closed the book, finally looking up. “[What other languages do you speak?]”

Vex grabbed up a stick and sat down, switching back to Halfling as she spoke. “One more after you teach me Hob.”

Baros chuckled. “So long as you’ll teach me more Winter Elven.”

“Sure, sure,” said Vex, waving him off. “Make with the Hob talk already. If I’m gonna meet a magistrate, better I speak the local tongue.”

Baros nodded. “The first thing to realize is that you’ll be using your tongue very little. Most of Hob is conveyed with the hands.”

Vex raised her stock-encased wrists, her expression bone dry.

“Yeah, that’s going to suck,” said Baros. “For you.”

“Fuuuck.”

* * *

Halflings, both the pair from the wagons as well as the crew of the ship, were busy transferring the cargo. Seeing a halfling, bent double and hauling a trunk on its back that had to weigh two hundred pounds or more? It reminded Vex of ants.

 _Deceptively strong, though they'll probably eat more than the horses after a workout like this,_ thought Vex while idly playing with her restraint. It was tethered to a dock piling while the wagons were being emptied.

Baros the apprentice bard walked over, a tall pile of sticks in his arms. Several had gotten tangled in his beard which put a smile on Vex's face.

"Think these will be enough?" he asked, setting the bundle down and then struggling to free his chin from the pile's grasp.

"Naw. Two more to be sure. Don't want to have to start eating the boat if we run out." Vex briefly considered tripping one of the worker ants before her survival instinct and her imagination paired up to illustrate just how thoroughly her ass would get kicked afterwards.

“You can eat stuff other than sticks, right?” asked Baros, finally freeing himself.

One of the halfling stevedores snorted.

Vex rolled her eyes. “I could eat everything in that boat, people included. Then I could eat the boat itself and shit out the nails.” She stuck a short stick between two molars and began to grind it into pulp. “Not everything is nutritious, or worth the time chewing, but your buddy over here is probably thinking of the expression, ‘Could gag a bakemono,’ which is why they’re thinking you’re a dumb-shit yokel for asking.”

The halfling in question smiled and nodded. “Pretty much.”

Baros shook his head. “Let me rephrase my question then. _Why_ are you eating sticks? You obviously have better options,” and he gestured to the barrel of food the stevedore was hauling.

“Hirata’s wooded, right?” and Baros nodded. Vex continued. “Say I get there, talk to the magistrate, and get turned loose because of my good behavior and shining personality.”

Hulagu and a halfling helper were tending the horses nearby. Both snickered at that.

Vex ignored them. “No one wants bakemonos around, so they chase me out. It’s nearing winter, we aren’t in evergreen territory, so I’m going to be left with a forest full of a whole lot of…?” she said, inflecting the final word up into a question.

“Sticks,” finished Baros.

Vex nodded. “I’d clap but…” and she waggled her stock-entrapped hands. “Thing is, it takes a while for a bakemonos to grow in the right teeth when their diet changes so I'd hate to avoid the axe only to starve right after."

"You know, on the slim chance that you do survive the magistrate, there is another option available to you. Besides living on sticks in the forest, I mean," said Baros invitingly.

Vex pivoted, having to step over her chain to face the human squarely. "Oh, I could tag along with you? Earn warm food and company as your assistant? Pool our knowledge and learn fascinating new things?"

Baros smiled guilelessly. "Exactly."

"Yeah, heard it before. Fuck that." Vex spat. "Fuck that with a winter elf flensing knife."

Baros blinked as if wondering where the punch had come from. "What? Why?"

"Because no one gives two shits about bakemonos except other bakemonos. I used to call the obos and diabos xenophobic-" On instinct Vex tried to bring her hand to the marks on her skin but was blocked by the stocks. "-but these days I think they're just fucking perceptive."

Baros stared at Vex for a long second before turning in the direction of the boat and stalking off.

When a halfling later detached her chain from the piling and started to lead her towards the vessel, Vex resisted. "Hey, who's gonna grab my gods damned sticks?!"

She looked around. The stevedores were busy or pretending to be. Looking back at Hulagu, the orc made a point of ignoring her and, when his helper's eyes lingered overlong on the sho-bakemono, thumped them in the back of the head to get them on task.

Vex made a clumsy grab for the pile but the chain was yanked and she was stopped short. She was hauled like so much cargo onboard the river boat.

"Way to prove my point you fucking assholes!" she shouted before being shoved below deck.

* * *

Vex moaned and struggled to stay positioned over the chamber pot.

 _You'd think with all the roughage-_ she joked inwardly before a cramp obliterated the thought.

She moaned again.

"Shut the hells up," shouted one of the halflings attempting to sleep below deck. There was a chorus of grunts in agreement.

After the cramp passed Vex shouted, "You can kiss my cloaca, pal!"

"Cloa- The hells?" said one but the others settled for general muttering and let the exchange drop.

Finally there was a push, a splash below, and a profound sense of relief. Vex half-sat, half-collapsed in the corner, taking care not to knock over the pot.

There was a faint scratching sound within.

"You can fucking wait. Mommy needs a breather."

A few minutes passed and then Vex drew in a breath and shouted, "Hey fuck-sticks! Want me to shut the fuck up? Go get Baros." She was a little breathless by the end.

It took a few more rounds of loud insults but the sailors eventually kicked someone out of their bunk to find whoever the crazy sho-bakemono was shouting about.

Vex heard the footfalls of something heavier than a halfling coming her way.

"Vex," said a weary Baros, coming into view with a lantern in hand. One of the halflings from the wagon was a step behind. "What's-"

Vex raised her hand up to shield her eyes from the light. "Gah! Turn that down, dammit!"

Baros sighed. A second later the lantern dimmed. "You weren't light-sensitive before," he remarked.

"I've been confined to the hold for, what, three days?"

"Nearly a week."

"Yeah. It ain't exactly bright down here. My eyes think I'm underground and have adapted. Fuck, I still have spots in my vision," muttered Vex, carefully rubbing her eyes so that she didn't bonk herself with the stocks.

Another sigh from Baros. "Vex, what do you want?"

"I need two things. First: food." Vex's stomach growled, loudly, to accent the point.

"There aren't any sticks on the-"

"Fuck sticks. They taste awful and I was near-starving living off them before. I'll get back on the stick-wagon later, but right now I need some real gods damned food. As much as a tall fuck like you would eat for a meal."

Baros leaned forward peering into the gloom, lantern held high. Vex muttered imprecations as he did. "Are you sick? Your hair looks patchy."

"Shedding. It's warm down here."

Baros shook his head. "Your body really doesn't sit still, does it?"

"Not unless my environment does. Anyway," and Vex nudged the chamber pot towards Baros. "The second thing I need is for that to be emptied over the side. Sooner or later the little shit's going to claw free. Boat full of feed like this? By the time we dock you'll have a lot less hay and a baby o-bakemono to deal with."

The pot rattled, Baros and the halfling startling in a way that'd be funny if Vex weren't both starving and bone-tired.

"You were pregnant?!" // "You're a girl?!" said Baros and the halfling over one another.

“Fuck, for someone who knows so much, you sure are ignorant,” muttered Vex. "Bakemonos are all female and we've been so screwed by life that we're always pregnant. Once a season I have a shit that tries to crawl out of the chamber pot."

A talon appeared at the lip of the pot before slipping and landing with a splash in the contents below.

"And if you don't throw it over the fucking side of the boat then we'll have the feral little shit running around, figuring out if there's enough food to grow up big and, if so, as what type."

The halfling peered forward to get a better glimpse of what was within the pot, then pulled back and made a nauseated 'hurp!'

"Miracle of fuckin' life," drawled Vex. "Now send her for a swim to shore and get me some gods damned food."

Baros handed the lantern to the sickened halfling and then, gingerly, his face scrunched up while trying to breathe through his mouth, hefted the pot. Something struggled within which only served to send the bard faster in the direction of the stairs.

"Bring that light, dammit," he barked at the halfling, sounding distressed. "I do _not_ want to trip."

* * *

Vex ate hungrily. Baros stood a little ways back, leaning against a wall, waiting for the sho-bakemono to finish. When the last of the food had vanished and Vex was lifting her chains up to snatch up crumbs, Baros spoke, albeit in a hushed voice so as not to disturb the sleeping sailors.

"Now that your fur is thinning out I can't help but notice the tattoos underneath. Looks like they cover your entire body."

Vex clumsily swept a few morsels into one palm, the stocks complicating the task. "Got any sticks, beardy?" she asked before transferring the contents to her mouth.

"A whole bushel." He paused. "Once we go ashore."

Vex gave a noncommittal grunt.

"It's Winter Elven writing, I can tell that much," he observed. "But I can't make out even a tenth of the words." He looked at Vex, his quill finger clearly itching to write. "What's the story there?"

Vex leaned back against the bulkhead, belly bulging slightly. Her eyes were half-lidded. "What have you heard about the winter elves?"

"Nothing good."

"Exactly. Sorry Baros, but that bushel just gets you a name. There's not enough sticks in the world to buy the full story."

Baros was silent for a long moment before he nodded his head.

Vex's hand went up and traced the ink-stained scar on her throat. "'Vorkin'Set.' And if you're ever anywhere where that name means anything, best you don't go saying it."

Vex lowered her hands and closed her eyes, fatigue closing around her. A while later she heard Baros' retreating footsteps.

 _Besides, I haven't figured out what half the damn tattoos mean myself,_ and for the thousandth time pined for her lost research.

* * *

The lights of Hirata shimmered below. It and the cook fires of countless orcs competed to light up the dark. The lowing and bleating of livestock were faintly audible.

The boat was two weeks behind them and their destination less than a day ahead. They'd camped on this hill because a rocky outcropping offered shelter from the cold wind.

"-need to get to a good steader town," complained one of the halflings.

"You mammalf and your fex drive," groused Vex, chewing on a stick like it had insulted her personally. Her incisors were so large they made her upper lips bulge and she lisped some of her words.

The halfling shook his head. "Sex? Gods no. I still haven't gotten over what I saw on that boat." He pulled out a leather pouch that was nearly empty. "I just want some more pipe-weed."

Baros finished blotting the ink and then looked up. "We'll be handing you over tomorrow, Vex. If there's anything else you want recorded for posterity..." He trailed off, leaving the invitation open.

Vex answered in Hob, signing as well as the stocks of metal-reinforced wood allowed. [Everyone here is an asshole.]

Baros chuckled and closed his book. "So, nothing new then?"

[Also, your beard is ugly.]

He stroked his chin. "You should be so lucky."

[Bitch, I have a full-body beard,] and Vex gestured over her fur.

The other halfling leaned towards Hulagu. "If those two are flirting, I'm gonna have to swear off sex too."

Vex finished her stick, grabbed another, and chewed on it suggestively, eyebrows waggling. She looked around the group while she did, eyes lingering for a few seconds on each.

That was everyone's cue to, loudly, call it a night.

* * *

When Baros woke up, he noticed the blood first. Which was strange because he really should have noticed the more obvious detail that Vex was missing.

The stock was still shackled to the wagon, but half of it was in ruins, chunks gouged out between the metal reinforcements like someone had taken a dull hatchet to it. There were wood fragments strewn everywhere and bits of... bone?

He stooped to look closer, holding the white material up to catch the morning light.

Not bone. Tooth. The wagon bed was strewn with wood bits, blood, and broken teeth.

Baros stared blankly, recent sleep making his thoughts slow, until he spied the pile of sticks. It all clicked into place.

He reached for his bag and was about to call for the caravan leader when his words died in his throat. He ripped open the bag and found...

His journal was gone. His inkwell was gone, as was his backup inkwell. His quills, his blotter, even the tiny knife he used to sharpen the quills. Gone. And every scrap of paper and writing implement gone with them.

Part of him felt a kind of relief, a better ending for the tale than the executioner's block, but it was a distant voice. The rest of him was tallying just how expensive all this would be to replace, the number of hours he'd spend trying to remember even a fifth of what he'd written down, and he hoped those sticks had tasted downright awful.

* * *

The caravan leader looked over the wagon interior. "Gone, eh?" The woman frowned, scowling at the dawn that had dropped this on her lap.

After a moment's thought she turned to the others. "Hulagu, go hunting. Dahey, Padraic," and the two halflings hopped to attention. "You help him."

"What am I hunting exactly?" asked the orc.

"Sho-bakemono. Go find one and bring it back. Alive and healthy enough to speak, but not healthy enough to speak well."

Hulagu and the halflings nodded and left to gather their things.

Baros blinked. "I don't understand. Shouldn't they be tracking Vex?"

The caravan leader had been talking with a carpenter about fixing the stocks. She paused and looked over at Baros as if she'd forgotten he was there.

"What? No. That shobo is long gone, and probably too clever to get caught a second time. The honorable samurai sent us to deliver a shobo for interrogation and execution to the magistrate. And by all the gods we will, because we all want to keep our heads attached to our necks."

"But it's the wrong sho-bakemono," pressed Baros.

Again then caravan leader turned back to the bard like he'd only just blinked into existence, and to annoy her, no less.

"Who cares? It's just a bakemono."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These keep getting longer. Either I'm getting more verbose or there's more to explain with these oddball races. Anyway, for bakemono, the question of nature vs. nurture is nurture. 100%.
> 
> Next week will cover the elves with Heyan’Dasa.


	4. Heyan'Dasa - Elves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: The Five Lives (and counting) of Heyan.

### Cycle #1 - Heyan'Ana

A flash of blue drew Heyan's attention. Eschewing stealth, he ran headlong, lithe limbs pumping as he sprinted through the undergrowth.

When he reached the elm he was momentarily lost, but a giggle overhead gave away his target. He scrambled up, a blue-haired, violet-skinned girl a little ahead of him. She was his size but he knew he was the faster of the two and would catch her yet.

The girl's foot slipped and it was only by a hair's breadth that she evaded Heyan's grasp. Glancing back she saw Heyan hot on her heels. "Eek!" she squeaked and then shimmied frantically out onto a limb.

They were fifteen or more feet off the ground. Heyan grinned. "You're trapped, Litha." Holding onto an overhead branch, he advanced out after her.

The blue-haired girl looked around for an out and found none. Lacking any better option, she inched further out onto the branch, the limb starting to sag.

"Say 'autumn,'" said the boy, trying to hide the frisson of fear as the wood creaked underfoot.

Litha had looked uncertain but that seemed to dispel it. She gave a defiant cry of, "Never!" and then flung herself out into space.

The branch wobbled underfoot, Litha's weight suddenly gone, and Heyan made a noise of fear and surprise. Redoubling his overhead grip, he waited the span of four heartbeats. Then fear gave way to outrage. "Hey! We said no flying!"

Butterfly wings colored in blues, greens, and purples were extended out wide from the spring elf's back. Gliding slowly downward, Litha banked so she was facing Heyan and she stuck out her tongue, utterly unrepentant in her cheating.

Wings were so unfair.

Heyan really wished summer elves had wings.

* * *

"~And the magpie stooole~ The bakemono's nooose~ While the bear chased the dwarf through the woods~"

As the song ended, Litha held the last note -- _"~woooooods~"_ \-- then raised it an octave higher, a piping tone like the trilling of a songbird.

This earned giggles and a cheer from the others.

Heyan smiled and reached down to ruffle her blueberry hair, towering over the girl. She tried to fend him off but to no avail: despite having seen more seasons, she was still mid-spring while Heyan was approaching summer.

Before their play could become a tussle, a voice called out. "Heyaaan. Your sire is here."

Half the children looked at Heyan while the other half faced the tall woman approaching them. She had chestnut hair tucked behind pointed ears, large, hazel eyes, and skin the shade of cherry wood. Compared to the colorful variety of the spring elves, she seemed practically plain.

"I see you, Heyan'Ana."

Heyan waved, feeling a little abashed. "Hi Lorend."

She looked at him expectantly.

He blinked. _Oh, right._

"I see you, Lorend'Set."

She nodded and smiled, then turned for the edge of the glade.

Heyan moved to follow her when he felt a tugging at his tunic. Litha, her jaw set stubbornly, shook her head. "Don't leave," she added.

Gelen, the director of the ad hoc choir and on the verge of summer herself, gently removed Litha's hold. "Don't fret. You'll see Heyan again." She gave her a comforting smile. "The seasons turn," she reminded.

"The seasons turn," answered Litha though she didn't sound happy about it.

Acting on impulse, Heyan crouched and pulled his friend into a hug, mindful of her wings while he did. Then he rose, waved to the other children, then jogged after his sire.

* * *

Lorend'Set placed a wooden bowl in Heyan's lap then sat down beside him.

"I think it is a fine time for a meal," she said to the world at large.

Heyan took this as the invitation it was and tucked in. Daffodil flowers, pecan nuts, long-stem grass, and holly leaves (for texture). He'd hoped for venison but Drennal'Net was rebuilding her smoker instead of hunting. Claimed the ventilation still wasn't perfect.

Lorend'Set ran her hands over the bowl, no doubt assessing her work. Most of the village ate from bowls of her creation, as well as innumerable other pieces of woodworking. Apparently satisfied, she ate some of her salad then, careful to finish chewing and swallow, said, "I spoke with Aeprim'Ana the other day. She observed that Heyan'Ana was impatient. It appears that he interrupted her mid-task."

Heyan scowled and crunched a pecan loudly. "Aeprim'Ana prefers the company of shoes to the company of elves. She probably scolds both for wagging their tongues at her."

Lorend'Set failed to hide her amusement at her progeny's wit. Instead she ate in silence for a while until she was prepared to respond. "It occurs to me that your shoes are in disrepair."

Heyan wiggled his big toe and saw it where the material was especially threadbare.

"One wonders where you would get your shoes patched, or new shoes made, if not from Aeprim'Ana," stated Lorend'Set. "I have heard of a cobbler in Hycinth Woods, but you would travel half the season to get there and need better shoes for the journey." She didn't look at Heyan directly, but he could see the sparkle of mirth in her eyes.

Heyan wasn't quite ready to give up just yet. "I could make my own. Gelen showed me and Litha how to weave sandals out of river grass."

Lorend'Set paused to drink from her waterskin, the leather decorated with whirls and starburst patterns, a winter gift from Drennel'Set. She'd offered it to Drennel'Net after she'd returned from the children, but the elf had politely declined.

She capped the skin and then set it in between her and Heyan, an unspoken invitation. Heyan took it and drank deep, resolving to refill it for her after the meal.

"It is kind of you to spare Aeprim'Ana's feelings," said his sire while he drank, "by wearing her shoes instead of these more comfortable and sturdier river grass sandals."

The sandals, even made well, were little better than slippers, every rock felt underfoot. Heyan knew this and so too did Lorend'Set.

Heyan popped a prickly holly leaf in his mouth and sulked as he chewed. He did as his sire, though, and took his time, eating a little and letting his feelings settle.

He could take all day if needed and Lorend'Set would be content to wait.

"It is unwise to antagonize my fellows," said Heyan eventually.

Lorend'Set smiled. "I notice that an elf is always of value. One would hardly want to annoy Quell'Dasa and no longer be invited to his music lessons."

Heyan's eyes went wide and he shook his head with some force. Music was endlessly fascinating and, as far as Heyan was concerned, Quell'Dasa was the finest musician in this or any other village.

Lorend'Set ran a thumb along the rim of her bowl while she studied the horizon. "Interests change, between seasons and between cycles, as happened when Drennel'Set became Drennel'Net. So this cycle's cobbler may be next cycle's orchardist." She reached into a basket woven by Ezn'Yedu and withdrew a pair of plums which could only have come from the trees Lillen'Dul cultivated. She set one beside herself, the other going on the grass between them.

"And all elves, no matter their hobbies, have thoughts they may share," she finished.

Heyan took the plum, raised it toward his mouth, then paused. Slowly, he set it back down and turned to his salad. The plum would still be there when he finished, and all the sweeter as a conclusion to his meal.

Lorend'Set's smile deepened. Then, looking conspiratorially around to ensure no others were listening, she said in a quiet voice, "Though maybe not Aeprim'Ana. She seems well-suited to the company of her shoes. Hold patience that the cycle is kinder to Aeprim'Dul."

Heyan- _Heyan'Ana,_ he corrected himself, for only the children counted no cycles.

Heyan'Ana snickered, sire and progeny sharing plums and mirth in equal measure.

* * *

The note faded. There was a breath of silence. Then the room erupted into cheers and applause.

Coins, flowers, and at least one undergarment were flung onstage as a chant of ‘en-core, en-core,’ was taken up by the crowd.

Halflings loved Heyan’Ana, and Heyan’Ana loved halflings.

After letting the chant grow louder and more insistent, Heyan’Ana broke the tension by nodding. “Okay, okay. One more.”

The crowd roared and more coins bounced across the stage.

“But first, one observes he is thirsty.”

A barmaid in what must have been a very _drafty_ outfit hustled on-stage with tankard in hand. A young steader lad, meanwhile, was busy gathering up the coins, flowers, and brassiere. Heyan’Ana would find them in his room after the performance.

Halflings were like children, in stature and in demeanor. Impulsive, impatient, fun-loving, and pleasure-seeking. The steaders were willing to grow, manufacture, or celebrate anything if it would draw in the travelers. A steader town that didn’t risked stagnation: of economy and breeding pool both.

And so Heyan’Ana, performer and musician, heralded as the next Quell'Dasa, traveled from halfling town to halfling town. The steaders were only too happy to lavish him with coin, food, drink, drugs, luxurious accommodations, and anything else besides so that the caravans would come flocking.

Heyan’Ana downed his drink with a hurry that felt thrillingly transgressive, then strummed a chord. This incited a roar from a crowd that packed every seat, every table, every balcony of the establishment, all eating and drinking and flirting and spending as they listened to their celebrity.

“For my next song, I’ll be performing a ballad from the autumn elves, _Rain Beneath the Waves.”_ He lifted his mug high and shot the establishment’s owner a wink, adding, “So drink like you have gills! Drink like an autumn elf and sing with me!”

Heyan’Ana had been alive for forty years. It would be another fifty before his personal summer ended and autumn begun. And if he spent the entirety of his summer doing _exactly this_ , his would be a good cycle indeed.

Yes, the halflings loved Heyan’Ana, and Heyan’Ana loved the halflings.

* * *

Weyune clung to Heyan’Ana anxiously. The latter cradled the former’s head to his chest and began to hum a gentle tune. That seemed to relax him.

Tisra'Yasa smiled at them then added her voice to the song. Hers was, in Heyan’Ana’s opinion, the perfect voice.

Heyan’Ana felt the pull of autumn upon him, making tiny Weyune seem heavy in his arms, but he tried not to let it show. In truth, Weyune wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

The sounds of play were heard first and Heyan’Ana felt Weyune stir slightly, head raised fractionally with interest. Heyan’Ana let the hum fade out and his progeny buried his face back into his chest. Smiling, Heyan’Ana resumed the song.

Just as they entered the glade a pair of spring elves flitted by, giggling while playing some kind of aerial tag.

Heyan’Ana watched, seeing if he recognized either of them.

Weyune, however, was awed, and pointed with tiny fingers, then looked at his sire to make sure he’d seen.

A ways distant a unicorn rose to its hoofs, interrupting the half-dozen children who had been braiding its mane and tail. It eyed Heyan’Ana and Tisra’Yasa warily.

They were not innocents like the children so it would flee if they approached.

A tiny figure with pink hair and lavender skin chased another with chestnut hair and skin the shade of cherry wood, the two weaving circles between Tisra'Yasa and Heyan’Ana’s feet. Weyune wriggled out of his sire’s arms, desperate to join. The pink-haired elf with dragonfly wings ran for the far side of the glade, Weyune following as fast as his tiny legs would take him.

Tisra'Yasa sighed, a bittersweet thing, as her child began his spring among the children. Heyan’Ana’s chest felt suddenly cold from his absence and he squeezed her hand for comfort.

Then he noticed the small boy with chestnut hair and cherry wood skin staring up at him.

“I know you,” the boy said slowly.

Heyan’Ana crouched, nervousness suddenly remembered.

“You do. Hello Lorend’S-” He covered the gaffe with a cough.

Lorend’Net, Lorend among the children, smirked, an expression Heyan’Ana could vividly remember on a woman’s face as they ate plumbs together many years ago.

“I’m sorry I missed your winter,” said Heyan’Ana. Winter was brief and harsh for the summer elves and he’d wanted to be there for her.

“It’s okay...” The boy’s expression grew sly. “Ifff you give me a treat!”

Heyan’Ana smiled and drew something out of his pack. “I noticed a plum tree on the way here.” He set a plum down on the grass between them.

Lorend snatched it up and took a greedy bite, so large his cheeks bulged and juice ran down his chin. “Muh fahvrit,” he mumbled.

“I suspected it might be.”

Lorend chewed impatiently and swallowed, wiping his chin on his sleeve though some juice remained. He looked like he was about to run off and join the endless play but then he paused. “I left something.” He blinked.

“Winter gifts?” offered Tisra'Yasa.

The boy nodded, memory jogged. “Yeah. Winter gifts. Aeprim has yours.” Then he bit into the plum so that he was holding it with his teeth, jumped in and gave Heyan’Ana a quick (and sticky) hug, then ran pell-mell towards a cluster of children jumping rope and singing.

“~Ana, Dul, Set, Net: how many cycles will you get?~”

Heyan’Ana looked briefly around, eyes roving for blue and violet.

“~Dasa, Yasa: you’ll do lotsa. Elgo, Yedu: might not get to.~”

Then Tisra'Yasa took his hand. He drew a breath and nodded, the pair turning to leave the children to their play.

“~Aho, Yol: no more for you!~”

The adults gone, the unicorn settled back down so the braiding could continue.

### Cycle #2 - Heyan'Dul

Heyan’s brush was actually a dandelion bud and left bits of yellow petals on Litha’s violet face. Neither seemed to mind. She dabbed at her ‘paints’ --assorted crushed berries and various shades of mud-- and spoke as she drew.

“-big parties to listen to me play and they gave me drinks and money and sweets and- and everyone cheered.”

Heyan frowned a little, wetting a finger with her tongue and wiping away a whisker that hadn’t been drawn straight.

Litha scoffed but held her face reasonably still while she did. “I’m a waaay better singer than you. I should come along so I get all the cheers and sweets and you just get fart water.”

Heyan snorted causing Litha to giggle, smudging some of the paint along her cheeks.

“Fart water isn’t a thing!” objected Heyan.

“Is too!” insisted Litha. “In my last summer I went to a place that smelled like farts and the ground was all muddy and there were these bubbles. Mud is dirt and water so that means there’s fart water.”

It was hard to argue with that.

Heyan went back to work. Tongue sticking out in concentration, she said, “It’s so weird to remember stuff I did.”

“That’s how remembering stuff works, Heyan,” teased Litha. “You don’t remember stuff you’re going to do unless you’re a seer.”

Heyan put a dollop of black on her brush and bopped Litha on the nose, both in rebuke and because the nose was supposed to be black. “I mean remembering stuff old-me did. Heyan’Ana. It’s different than remembering that time you tricked Jerin into eating fire berries.”

Litha nodded sagely, a few yellow petal fragments dotting her black nose. “Yeah. Like, there’s stuff old-me did fifteen cycles ago, big, important, cool stuff, but I don’t remember it. It’s more like I remember remembering it, like someone told me a story that they had heard from someone else who heard it from-”

“You’re fifteen cycles old?!” interrupted Heyan loudly.

Litha rolled her eyes. “Sixteen, fart-water-breath. I couldn’t remember fifteen cycles ago if I was fifteen cycles old. Spring elves can have twenty and summer elves only get ten, because spring elves are better.”

Heyan crossed his arms, unknowingly painting one elbow with black mud. “But your cycles are twice as fast so it makes the same. Even the winter elves only get three cycles but they still live a thousand years. They’re just really long cycles.”

Litha pouted at the middle distance while she thought about that. Then pout became smirk and she fluttered the butterfly wings at her back. “Well, spring elves can still fly so we’re still the best.”

Wings were so unfair.

Changing the subject, Heyan made a final dab and declared, “You are now a manticore!”

Heyan was particularly proud of the whiskers. Neither of them had ever seen a manticore before but they both agreed that they had whiskers. Or should, if they didn’t.

Litha smiled and flew a little circuit overhead, growling and scratching the air with fingers splayed out like claws.

Satisfied, she settled down and took the strip of birch bark that was holding their paints, picked a fresh ‘brush’ from the dandelions growing nearby, and faced Heyan. “What kind of monster do you wanna be?”

Heyan grinned. “A cyclops! You can paint one big eye over my face so that when I close my eyes it’ll look like I’m looking at people!”

* * *

The mules were finding the sandy ground tricky. The three were tame beasts, purchased from the orcs and therefore well-trained, but no amount of breeding could make a mule on shifting ground pleasant. Heyan’Dul was eager to sell hers back to the orcs after the journey was over.

Keen ears picked up the distant sound of surf. They were close.

“One observes a pleasant sky overhead. Clouds without risk of rain sounds nice,” said Aeprim’Dul, one of four elves present.

The quartet walked on in silence, the other three letting the topic drop. No one wanted to talk about the weather.

Aeprim’Ana had been a cobbler with a somewhat lacking conversational style. Things weren’t looking especially promising for Aeprim’Dul on that front.

“I noticed the other season that a halfling town was being established a few day’s travel from the village,” offered Osjen'Elgo.

Heyan’Dul was quick to respond. “That is interesting. In my previous cycle I enjoyed traveling among the halflings. I wonder as to the name of the new settlement.”

Osjen’Elgo replied, “I heard it was Carlingford, named after the leader of the settlers and the river ford they are settling on.”

Heyan’Dul smiled at her conversational partner, the elf in his seventh cycle quick to nod and wink in response.

Kaelb’Set was a stern-faced elf with a pair of blades strapped to her hip and a bow slung across her back that was nearly as tall as she was. Martial prowess was an interest an elf could focus on as much as performing or shoe-making, and their village boasted a handful of warriors. She had said little over the previous days of travel which was why it was something of a surprise when she added, “I have seen that the ford was frequented by the orcs in their seasonal migrations. They’re displeased at their lands being divided and have conducted several raids against the halflings.”

Heyan’Dul considered this, turning the matter over in her head.

Aeprim’Dul, however, responded first. “I observe that there is grass enough for everyone, on both sides of the river. It seems petulant to fight over such matters.”

Kaelb’Set’s expression was unreadable. The rest of the walk to the coast was in silence, save for the braying of the mules.

Osjen’Elgo saw the draft animals tended to. Aeprim’Dul began gathering tangy sand grass and other food stuff for a meal. Heyan’Dul refreshed their water skins, then retrieved her instrument and found somewhere a ways distant to sit.

Kaelb’Set looked over the area for threats, then withdrew a conch shell from her belongings and strode toward the surf. She blew it in three long calls that echoed off the salt-sprayed cliffs, tones blending with one another, sometimes discordant, sometimes harmonious.

Heyan’Dul found it fascinating. She listened more than she watched, glad for the interruption.

She was finding her instrument troublesome.

She found a chord, strummed it, then tried to progress to the next but her fingers got lost in the process. She frowned. This was the opening to Quell'Dasa’s _Autumn Leaves Waltz_ , something she’d played thousands of times in her previous cycle. The head remembered clearly but her fingers didn’t.

The heart didn’t remember either. The excitement of the performance was absent, like biting into a plum and finding it bland and juiceless.

Kaelb’Set blew another trio of sonorous notes on the conch.

Heyan’Dasa paused, listening to the sound but also to something within herself. She plucked a few notes, then slowly found a few more, a song taking shape. 

Aeprim’Dul came and went with the meal, but Heyan’Dul ate distractedly, forgoing the company of the others to instead try and find the proper form of the tune within her.

A scant few hours later, Osjen'Elgo approached with an easy grin on his face. “I see you, Heyan’Dasa.”

Heyan’Dasa, eyes on her fingers, replied, “I see you, Osjen’Elgo… figuratively.” She was being glib but she assumed the other would be amused rather than offended.

He sat across from her. “I wonder at the source of that song,” he said in invitation.

Heyan’Dasa played a little further before looking up. “It is something I am creating.” She smiled and brushed a stray bit of hair from her face. “After a hundred years playing the music of others, I am suddenly finding it thrilling to compose something wholly unique.”

Osjen’Elgo nodded. “Finding what has and hasn’t changed across the cycles can be awkward, but the discovery is a rare sort of exhilaration. Speaking of, I find myself curious about playing an instrument. Perhaps you know of an elf who could instruct me.”

Heyan’Dasa felt for the second time that day a kind of surge, of mind and body entering joyous agreement. Yes, she would very much like to teach music to others.

Which was why she felt a bit of disappointment when the autumn elf, in answer to their call, stepped out of the surf a few minutes later.

While the spring elves were colored like the flowers of spring, the autumn elves were colored as the sea they dwelt within, hair and skin in blues, greens, and browns. Just as winter was brief for the summer elves, spring was short for the autumn elves. They grew up quickly until, a scant thirty years later, they were past their prime. There they lingered in personal autumn for more than a century-and-a-half. They were serious adults busy beneath the waves, artists and artisans with a focus on the long-term, living four or five cycles spread across a thousand years.

As Osjen’Elgo had quipped during the trip out, they had an ironically dry sense of humor.

This one greeted them by name, reminded each of their fees, and then shared a snack of sea cucumbers and sargassum. His skin was teal but the gill-lines running diagonally down his throat were sapphire. As was custom, the four summer elves offered the autumn elf fruits and herbs that did not grow near the coast. The meal was brief, however, as autumn elves dried quickly, finding even an hour ashore uncomfortable.

Meal complete, the sea elf retreated back under the water. The following dawn, he returned with two others, each rolling a water-proof cask. Heyan’Dasa breached hers and found the wealth of her past cycle glittering within, while Osjen’Elgo and Aeprim’Dul did the same.

Kaelb’Set stood watch.

When a summer elf entered their personal winter, most belongings were given to others as gifts. Coins, however, went to the autumn elves for safe keeping, for there were few who could pilfer a submerged vault.

Many things varied from cycle to cycle but one thing was constant: money made life easier.

The fees were paid, the mules were laden, and the four began their trip back to the village.

When they were beset by bandits, Kaelb’Set proved why it was wise to bring a warrior along when venturing afield, slaying three and driving the other four away as quickly as they could run.

When the group had been preparing the journey in the first place, they had offered to pay Kaelb’Set, in trade or in coin, but she’d declined. The promise of violence was the only coin she valued, and the bandits proved payment aplenty.

For Heyan’Dul, though, the journey was spent in a haze as she composed and taught, twin stars that blazed brilliantly within her, promising fascination and fulfillment enough for the eighty or so years she had before her personal spring wrought its changes on her once more.

### Cycle #3 - Heyan'Set

The lathe turned, the wood spun, and slowly the instrument took shape beneath Heyan’Set’s tools. Even since her first cycle, music had been central to her life. Now, that melody was the scratch of a chisel on cherry wood, the muted whisper of falling sawdust, and that first, clarion note of a perfectly crafted lute.

Behind her, Dayne Halk, son of the Halk merchant family and purveyor of fine instruments, sipped his tea through clenched teeth.

The human had been in the village for three days now. Every day he’d announced himself to Heyan’Set and tarried. Other than a perfunctory greeting acknowledging his presence, Heyan’Set hadn’t turned from the song of the lathe.

Another sip, loud and sibilant, then the clack of cup on saucer. Keen ears heard the grinding of molars.

An hour passed and the work for this stage was complete. She’d need to sand the instrument, carve the joins, then bring out the fine tools for the ornamentation, but these were things best undertaken without a petulant child glowering nearby. That and, at ninety years into her cycle, she was midway through her personal autumn.

Her back hurt from being hunched over for so long.

“It occurs to me that I might have some instruments not already spoken for,” she announced while straightening up.

“Excellent!" Dayne Halk sprung to his feet, empty cup and saucer falling to the ground, forgotten in his eagerness. "I’ve no doubt my family is eager to see your wares after I return from this… unexpectedly leisurely visit with the legendary Heyan’Set.”

The human’s ardent haste reminded her of Litha sprinting to be the first to a berry patch. Heyan’Set tried to hide her smirk at the image of this merchant with butterfly wings and juice stains around his hands and mouth.

Heyan’Set walked unhurriedly to the back of her workshop. She lifted a lyre up from its stand and smiled. “I fashioned this for Osjen'Yedu fifty years past. It was returned as a winter gift. I am happy to say Osjen’Aho is among the children, her cycle ongoing.” She shook her head. “When an elgo or older enters winter, it is never a certainty.”

Dayne snatched up the lyre and marveled at it, eyes wide. “It’s marvelous.” He plucked a note, then ran his fingers down the strings in a glissando.

Heyan’Set had to suppress the urge to scold him. It was like watching someone guzzle a vintage honey wine.

“Marvelous,” he said again, then clutched it in one fist while he turned to Heyan’Set. “I can offer you two hundred gold for it.” His free hand was already traveling to his bulging purse.

Gingerly but insistently Heyan’Set removed the instrument from him. Humans had such sausage-like fingers and it was a wonder sometimes that they could play anything at all. “I observe that you quote a fair price for an instrument, but this is an heirloom, a keepsake from a dear friend. Five summers’ labor and countless memories reside therein.”

The human blinked. “Five summer- You spent five years making a lyre?!”

She’d worked on other projects in parallel but she didn’t care for this child’s tone and chose not to correct him. “If your people honed their crafts so, you wouldn’t be compelled to seek me out for mine,” she said instead.

He ran a hand through his thinning hair, still looking abstracted. “Yeah, but who has the time?”

She raised her chin slightly, looking down at this man. “I do.”

He blinked again. “Ah, yes, you do, don’t you.” He shook his head, smiling as if he’d made a joke. His hand went back to his bag of coins. “Personal value, I understand. How about two-fifty? That’s more than most make in seven years; a fine trade for five-year’s labor.”

Heyan’Set’s eyes narrowed. “I will need time to think on your offer.”

Dayne nodded his head. “I completely understand. I have some ale, pride brew of Duhlin in fact, which we can sip while you think.”

“The dawn after tomorrow,” answered Heyan’Set.

“Eh?”

Heyan’Set carefully placed the lyre back on its stand. “I will agree to your price or make my counter-offer the dawn after tomorrow.”

He ran his sausage fingers through his hair again and made an aborted noise of frustration. “Very well,” he said with a tight voice. A deep breath passed and the merchant composed himself. Then, in a genial tone, he asked, “What else do you have to show?”

“You mistake my intent, Dayne Halk. Dawn after tomorrow and I will answer your offer. Then we can look at another piece. Each is precious and must be considered thoughtfully.”

She wondered if he used utensils when he ate or just shoveled the food directly into his face, such was his impatience.

The man’s mouth opened and closed a few times as he stared at her, several expressions crossing his face as he did. He huffed out a long breath and ran his hands through his hair again. “It’s early enough, surely there is time to look at a _few_ more instruments. I informed my family this trip would be…” He trailed off when he noticed Heyan’Set’s attention elsewhere.

“You can’t be-” he tried again. “Two days just to dicker over one-”

Heyan’Set had taken a cloth from her apron and was carefully wiping down the lyre in case the human had left smudges on it.

“Gah!” she heard, followed by the sound of booted feet tromping out of her workshop.

Ah, that was better.

A few minutes passed before she heard the the light patter of elven feet approaching. “I wonder if Heyan’Set would care to speak with an adult,” said a voice with faint mirth.

Heyan’Set smiled and turned. “I see you, Pemon’Dasa.” He was flanked by two elves, man and woman. To the woman she said, “I see you, Lillen'Net.” To the man, her smile widened. “I see you, Weyune’Dul.” She gestured to a quartet of seats, a set made by Drennal'Dasa in trade for a violin. “I see there are chairs available for the court’s comfort.”

Each elf was free to live and act as she saw fit. If others found her behavior unacceptable, she would be ignored. If that was too much, the elf would either conform or relocate elsewhere. However, if two elves were in a dispute and wished to turn to an impartial third-party to resolve it, they would usually turn to the court, elves with an interest in governance. In addition to arbitration, the court would also gather donations to fund larger projects or plan mass celebrations.

Pemon’Dasa took a seat, as did Lillen'Net.

Weyune’Dul, the only progeny Heyan’Set had chosen to have even after three centuries of life, embraced her. His arms were strong and her body was becoming frail but she tried to hide the discomfort. He walked with her to the open seats and sat down, placing a water skin in the space between in invitation.

She smiled, the drink ignored for now. “I wonder what brings the court to my workshop.”

Expressions from the three faded like rain clouds crossing the sun.

Lillen'Net spoke first. “The interregnum continues, with the eastern river orcs still feuding with the western river orcs. We sent an emissary to each,” and she gestured in Weyune’Dul’s direction.

Her progeny spoke up. “They can’t spare us warriors and the herders willing to come were inadequate. I was very generous in my offer but each worries the other faction will have the advantage if they send warriors to us.”

Heyan’Set reached for the water skin after all, taking a drink while she ordered her words. Swallowing, she capped it and returned it to its place, her mouth downturned. “I have coin if more is needed. If much more is needed, I know a certain child in a hurry to spend his and be away.”

Pemon’Dasa shook his head. “Generous as that is, it won’t help. We don’t have time. The settlers are already through Carlingford and on their way here.”

Heyan’Set’s eyes widened. “Without orc mercenaries, there’s no way we could repel them. The halflings will number in the hundreds. They’ll even claim the children’s grove!” Her heart was pounding in her chest.

A hand reached out. It was strong, callused from seasons spent training with blade and bow. “There are a dozen of us warriors,” said Weyune’Dul. “We have nine more hunters and probably a score of craftsmen who were warriors in previous cycles. We could mount a resistance, slow them, sabotage them. Force them to reconsider. There are a great many places they could settle. It doesn’t have to be our home.”

Heyan’Set shook her head, eyes low. In that moment she felt ancient, as though her autumn had been cut short and winter suddenly come. “No, it won’t work. You can’t divert halflings once they have their destination. Steaders will kill and die rather than be driven from their home, and settlers are no different. They’re relentless and too numerous to be defeated.”

She took her progeny’s hand, fear lending her grip strength. “If you face them you will accomplish nothing and you might perish. You’re so young, Weyune’Dul. You might have another eight hundred years before you.” She shook her head again. “If we leave, they won’t fight us. They won’t loot us or harm us. They want our land, nothing more and nothing less.”

Weyune’Dul pulled his hand free. “We are the summer elves. The bravest of our kind, the sole guardians of the children, and the greatest race to stride this world.” He looked at her. “Go and be safe. I’ll see you this cycle or the next, however long it takes to protect our home.”

* * *

It was autumn in the unfamiliar forest and winter most bitter for Heyan’Set. She ached and she seethed.

The halflings of the recently founded town of Toormakeady had kept a few weapons and other tokens as spoils but they’d been gentle with the bodies, all things considered.

A platform had been erected in the bows of a great birch tree, leaves the red and orange of flames. The birds circled overhead. Soon they would descend on the remains and Weyune’Dul would have his sky burial.

Not even two centuries old: a life cut tragically short.

A few sang the songs of morning. Heyan’Set heard none of it, the chants drowned out by the wrathful drumming of her blood, loud and terrible in her ears.

### Cycle #4 - Heyan'Net

“Hail and welcome!” called the halfling.

Heyan’Net smiled and waved. She wore leathers and carried a backpack with a reinforced back to make the weight easier to bear. She walked with a fine birch walking stick, etched with designs and painted in reds and oranges like the leaves in autumn.

“Hail and welcome, traveler,” answered Heyan’Net. “Is there room in the wagon?”

The traveler, a redhead in a pale blue shirt and breeches, said, “It’s standing room only, so you might bump your head, tall one.”

Heyan’Net nodded sagely. “Then I guess I’ll have to pull from the front. Think the horses would mind?”

The halfling laughed and waved. “That they might. Never mind before, come and have a seat. We can make fun of your ears and you can tell us gossip about our grandmas’ grandmas.”

Heyan’Net climbed in, knees at her chest as she shared food and drink with the travelers within. A few had heard of the performer Heyan’Ana from centuries back and one boasted that the mayor from where they’d grown up owned an authentic Heyan’Set.

Judging from the description, their mayor was proud of an imitation with her former name etched into it, but Heyan’Net kept that to herself.

Talk of travel, of plans, of destinations came and went and soon it was dusk. The wagons circled and a large cook fire was built in the center. For a little evening entertainment, Heyan’Net performed some magic. She was a green-singer, a druid, and conjured faerie fire overhead. Motes of blue, green, and violet swirled and whirled overhead, sung into existence to the delight of the halflings huddled around.

One, the redhead from before, sat down beside her. “That’s really something,” she said, balancing a bowl of soup on her lap. She dipped a trail biscuit in the broth and ate, all without lowering her eyes from the light show above.

“It’s minor as magics go, but useful,” answered Heyan’Net. Normally she’d have to sing to sustain the magic, but with her staff she could pause and speak a little.

“Oh? Useful how, if’n you don’t mind my asking.”

Heyan’Net smiled while humming. “They can be used to illuminate hiding foes. If you look you’ll see a bat in shades of blue flying around, no doubt distressed at its new coloration. But if you’re clever you can use it to talk across distances too.”

“What? Really?” asked the child-sized woman between bites of biscuit.

“Five blue lights for five wagons. A green light going back-and-forth means fifty and another two standing still mean ten and ten. Seventy travelers.”

The woman chuckled and clapped her hands, delighted. “And the violet light hovering over Liam’s wagon? What’s that mean?”

Heyan’Net waited for a while, humming softly, focusing, listening. Then, just when the redhead was getting impatient enough to ask again, she said, “That’s the wagon where your guards have congregated.”

The redhead laughed but it thinned, becoming a noise of confusion. “Wait, but why is that-”

The whole camp went quiet for a moment as the rumble was heard. Then there was a cry of alarm from Liam’s wagon. A second later said wagon shattered into splinters and gore.

Orcs weren’t known for their stealth, especially not when they were riding on war rhinos.

The redhead, to her credit, threw her soup at Heyan’Net and scrambled for a dagger long enough to count as a sword in her hands. The broth had grown tepid, though, and bought her too little time: Heyan’Net sang a high note, her staff flared with light, and suddenly the camp fire leapt its bounds and washed over the child-sized opponent, immolating her and igniting the canvas covers of the adjacent wagons.

This was the fifth caravan to try and fail to reach Toormakeady. Travelers were fickle and sooner or later they’d stop coming entirely. Then the town would suffer crop blights. And insect swarms. And pestilence.

It may take decades to make Toormakeady wither away to nothing, but Heyan’Net had the time.

* * *

“Elves were once fey. Like the dryads and nymphs are still. We were eternal but we were bound, to sea, to sky, to forest, to earth. We thought but there were no thoughts of tomorrow, only of the now. But something happened and we became mortal, unbound, awakened. Fey of the seasons, of spring, of autumn, of summer, of winter, now elves.”

Heyan’Net sat on a log while four elves late in their spring or early in their summer listened studiously. 

“We are still graced by our fey lineage, and so we live cyclically, so we ignore disease, so we are sustained by plants without cultivation, and so we are capable of accessing fey magic.”

One student, Lorend’Yasa, was her sire, though such things mattered less and less as the cycles passed. Another, Wesmin’Yol, was her sire’s sire. No summer elf lived to see an eleventh cycle, which lent an air of finality to Wesmin’Yol.

He was a _very_ astute pupil.

Heyan’Net hummed, her voice rising in her throat as she sung forth her magic. The acolytes wouldn’t yet have the skill to craft staves of their own, so she was working without hers to better teach them the fundamentals.

A seed sprouted in Heyan’Net’s outstretched palm. As she sung it grew further, swaying with the music that channeled magic through it. Grass at her feet began to grow and flowers bloomed out of season, all swaying in time.

There was pain and the music faltered.

The acolytes looked to her and then each other in confusion. Heyan’Net’s hand went to the bulge at her stomach.

“Wesmin’Yol, go and fetch Pemon’Yasa.” A teacher was allowed to be curt with her students. A mother in labor could be blunt. Right now she was both. “Tell her the baby is coming. Hurry!”

The youth sprinted like he was trying to outrun his own heels.

“Lorend’Yasa, bring me my staff and walk with me. The rest of you-” She paused as a cramp washed over her. “I’ll send for you when lessons can continue.”

Lorend’Yasa brought her the staff and then gave her her hand to squeeze.

Heyan’Net leaned close and spoke in a low voice. “This is the first time I’ve been a woman for this part. What should I expect from Leyune?” she asked, gesturing to the bulge at the child’s name.

Lorend’Yasa gave her a mirthless smile. “If they’re anything like you were, this little seed won’t be in a hurry to blossom.”

Heyan’Net grimaced, moving slowly but insistently forward. “I’m just glad to be home for this.”

The path led them past a ruined house overgrown with ivy. If the roof hadn’t collapsed it would have been too low for an elf to stand comfortably within. Several of these buildings remained though time and animals had long since scattered the bones within.

### Cycle #5 - Heyan'Dasa

 _The seasons turn._ It was a phrase taught to all children, an aphorism probably spoken in the forests, beneath the waves, and in the unlit caverns of the world as well. It was true for all of elf-kind, that even they would see their last season eventually.

Litha never saw her twentieth cycle. That she had seen her nineteenth already made her a rarity among the spring elves.

The days of Heyan’Net were vivid in Heyan’s mind. He remembered his instruments as Heyan’Set. He could recall details of his compositions and the students he’d trained as Heyan’Dul, though the memories were hazy at best. He remembered remembering things as Heyan’Ana, that there had been performances and revelry.

The ache of Weyune’Dul was there but dulled by closure and time.

But his memories of Litha, of chasing her up trees and painting her like a manticore, somehow, those remained. As Heyan left the glade, entering his fifth summer, he missed his friend.

* * *

The village seemed smaller for some reason. Heyan’Dasa hummed but there was no magic in it, sang but there was no artistry behind it. His driving passion had yet to reveal itself.

As his sire, Lorend’Elgo, entered her winter, he tended to her. When her cycle ended without a spring, it was sad, but a muted sadness. Most lived beyond their seventh cycle but it wasn’t guaranteed.

The seasons turned.

* * *

A winter elf arrived causing quite the hubbub within the village. She was enshrouded in silk, pale skin protected from the harsh light of the surface.

Two thralls followed a respectful distance behind, creatures of indeterminate species that attended to their mistress and her baggage. They were stunted things that saw with their ears and so were unconcerned with the brightness.

Though the winter elves were reclusive by nature, though there was little love lost between them and their seasonal opposites, ancient custom dictated that elves be free to wander without harm among their peers.

The winter elf paused in front of Heyan’Dasa, eyes the color of a frozen lake peering out from the recesses of her veil. “I am bid by my master to seek reagents,” she said in accented elven. Parchments emerged from within the folds of her silks depicting flora and fauna, some familiar, others not. “Tell me, sun-lander, who would help me find them and what would they ask for in return.”

It certainly wasn’t the traditional greeting, but Heyan’Dasa felt a stirring in his breast. “I see you, daughter of the unlit lands. Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

The village felt small, but this went beyond that. Far beyond.

Heyan’Net had recovered Weyune’Dul’s blades and bow. Winter gift to winter gift, they had found their way back to him and he retrieved them now.

Heyan’Net hummed as he led Sardee’Ana in the direction of a valley where one of the reagents grew. The thralls picked up the humming as they traveled, music in the air as adventure took them forth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The elven sub-races break down like this, where child = spring, prime = summer, middle aged/peaked = autumn, and elderly = winter:
> 
> **Spring Elves**
> 
>   * Colorful children with wings
>   * 14 to 20 cycles of 55 years each
>   * Spring: 0-29 years old.
>   * Summer: 30-39 years old.
>   * Autumn: 40-44 years old.
>   * Winter: 45-55 years old.
> 

> 
> **Summer Elves**
> 
>   * Proud elven vanguard
>   * 7 to 10 cycles of 110 years each
>   * Spring: 0-19 years old.
>   * Summer: 20-79 years old.
>   * Autumn: 80-99 years old.
>   * Winter: 100-110 years old.
> 

> 
> **Autumn Elves**
> 
>   * Aquatic craftsmen and artists
>   * 4 to 5 cycles of 220 years each
>   * Spring: 0-9 years old.
>   * Summer: 10-29 years old.
>   * Autumn: 30-199 years old.
>   * Winter: 200-220 years old.
> 

> 
> **Winter Elves**
> 
>   * Ancient, cunning, and powerful oligarchs
>   * 2 to 3 cycles of 375 years each
>   * Spring: 0-19 years old.
>   * Summer: 20-29 years old.
>   * Autumn: 30-49 years old.
>   * Winter: 50-375 years old.
> 

> 
> Cycle Name Suffixes
> 
>   1. 'Ana
>   2. 'Dul
>   3. 'Set
>   4. 'Net
>   5. 'Dasa
>   6. 'Yasa
>   7. 'Elgo
>   8. 'Yedu
>   9. 'Aho
>   10. 'Yol
> 

> 
> Next week will cover the orcs with Batugei. However, with Christmas in the middle of it all, the vignette might go up on Thursday or Friday instead of Wednesday.


	5. Batugei - Orcs

"[Let me help you with that,]" offered Batugei, speaking in Halfling.

The dwarven merchant looked up at the orc like he'd asked to eat his family. He scowled back and said, "[Just tell me where to set up my wares. I'm eager to be done with this place.]"

Batugei, skin a middle color between green and brown, with bright eyes and beads woven into his hair, only smiled in return. This seemed to unsettle the dwarf further, much to the orc’s amusement. "[Ten yards east-north-east and mind the goat shit.]"

The dwarf turned west then south, bewildered. Then he stared at the ground, lifting a boot up to examine the underside. It was funny just how lost the other races could be.

Orcs knew where north was relative to their facing. They knew it as surely as they knew where their hands were relative to their bodies. They didn't speak in 'left' or 'right' but in the cardinal directions. Left and right took thought, you had to teach a child to know one from the other, but north was north so obviously even whelps too small to speak could point it out.

Batugei's smile deepened as he pointed to help the poor merchant, then returned to his bench to resume his crafting.

* * *

"-Buqa's pelts are good pelts. Don't let him claim otherwise."

Batugei sat on a wooden bench in front of his yurt, half-focusing on his needlework while a sour-faced dwarven merchant bustled around a wagon, readying wares.

The semi-nomadic, semi-permanent village was bustling in the morning light, the horizon birthing the sun to the east. Women, orcs and sho-bakemonos both, went among the chickens, rabbits, pigs, cows, mules, horses, zebras, even a few rhinos, herding and feeding and milking. Others were tending the crops, all sho-bakemono because it was a poor orc indeed who raised plants instead of animals.

The men, meanwhile, were at their crafts: sewing, smithing, cutting, carving, making all the things the village would use or trade. Those not crafting were training or grooming their animals. An orc could avoid changing his clothes or bathing often and it would go unremarked, but if his mount or hunting companion was unkempt, gossip and judgement would follow.

"Buqa will be fine. Dwarves always want the pelts, the leather, the wool," said Radnatani beside him, the woman claiming most of the bench for herself.

As head woman of the Daguur herd, she could take up as much of the bench as she wanted.

Batugei looked at her in profile. Light-green skin made darker by the sun, with dark hair hidden behind a decorative, beaded headscarf that, Batugei observed with pride, he had made as a gift for her last spring. She wore a colorful caftan robe over trousers but muscle tone was visible wherever the clothing wasn't bunched.

She chewed irritably at a length of jerky while she glared at the merchant, like he was a problematic colt and she was considering gelding him. "It's Berkedai's knives he's going to try and fuck me on." She shook her head. "I told him not to make knives. You told him not to make knives. And when his knives won't sell for horse shit, I'm going to have a sulking, angry Berkedai moping around."

She transferred the jerky to the west side of her mouth as she turned to Batugei. "As if I don't have enough children to take care of." At that, one of the trio of children suckling at her shifted position, three of six flaps in Radnatani's caftan open for that purpose.

Batugei chuckled. "Maybe if you open a flap for him as well, he will mope less."

Radnatani scoffed and swatted him, but Batugei saw the twinkle of mirth in her eyes.

A pair of sho-bakemonos in woolen dresses walked over, one orange-skinned, the other brown splotched with green. As the orcs turned their way they smiled, showing flat teeth adept at chewing plants. If either had a carnivore's tooth in their mouth, they'd be punished. Bakemonos were forbidden from eating meat lest their young grow into dai-bakemonos.

Radnatani and Batugei both had scars from dai-bakemonos, and they were hardly the only ones.

The head woman reached into her robes and withdrew a heavy coin purse. She handed it to the orange-skinned sho-bakemono, Nokai, who quickly began tallying the contents.

Batugei reached into his own robes and withdrew a more modest purse. "I could come with. I'm no stranger to haggling, or making merchants sweat."

Radnatani tsked at him as she plucked up the bag and passed it to the sho-bakemono. "If you didn't have women making your purchases, you'd fritter away your money on pretty, useless things. As if Sudal needs more beads in his mane."

Batugei held up his needlework, a sibling to Ranatani's scarf in progress. "I can't sew this with zebra hair." He grinned and touched her headscarf. "And if you're jealous of Sudal's beads, I could save the prettiest ones for you."

Radnatani rolled her eyes. "Men. You're only good for two things."

"What about mating season?" he replied, voice warm.

"Two-and-a-half."

The merchant finished his preparations then looked their way, his scowl visible even at this distance. When the orcs didn't immediately hustle over, he spat and gave them an impatient wave.

"Careful he doesn't charm the money out of your fingers," said Batugei in a carrying whisper.

Radnatani's laugh was a percussive bark, deep and cynical. "I swear those runts get more unpleasant by the season. It's as if they expect us to carve them up for dog meat."

Batugei didn't share Radnatani's opinion. The dwarves were rarely friendly but they were usually fair, and that was good enough for him. But to the head woman he quipped with a grin, "The dogs would break their teeth on the stone."

Radnatani nodded. Then she swatted each of the children clinging to her. "Up. Girls, go with Sorqaqtani and milk the goats," and the brown-and-green sho-bakemono led the girls away. Radnatani picked up the boy and set him on the bench beside Batugei. "And you, sit with Batugei and learn something."

With that Radnatani snapped the three flaps shut and strode over to face the merchant, with Nokai there to help keep up with the numbers.

The boy wiped milk from his chin and scooched a little closer to get a better look at the man's sewing. He wore a plain wool dress like the sho-bakemonos did, no trousers because he was not yet old enough to ride. He touched some of the brighter colors and cooed.

Batugei smiled. "You like that?"

The boy nodded. "Pretty clothes make you look rich." He pointed. "Like mama."

The boy was close to four years of age if Batugei remembered correctly. A human or elven child at that age wouldn't be half so large, nor so smart. The orcs weren't among the greatest minds of this world, but they developed quickly.

Batugei brought out a rag and offered it and a threaded needle to the boy. He cut a small hole in the rag and said, "Sew that shut. I'll show you how."

It was slow going, and the stitching was crude beyond words, but the boy smiled as he worked. Batugei smiled to see it and they worked while the women haggled and argued with the merchant, the males the happier pair.

The boy was definitely Buqa's whelp, that pronounced chin could have come from no one else, though the boy's twin sisters could have been his or Berkedai's. Or both; Radnatani had accepted all three of them during that mating season, and a litter could have multiple fathers.

Batugei ruffled the boy's hair and retrieved needle and rag, making a mental note to praise the boy in front of Radnatani when the time was right. But first...

"You said earlier that the pretty clothes made your mother look rich."

The boy had been picking at a loose thread in his dress when he looked up at Batugei and nodded.

"That's a little truth. Do you want to hear the big truth?"

The boy considered this for a moment then smiled a carnivore's smile up at the larger orc. "Yeah!"

"What makes a person rich aren't things, it's animals. True wealth walks, breeds, and bleeds," said Batugei, one hand walking across the bench between them on four fingers. He made the fifth finger, the 'head,' rear up and he made a whinny noise like a horse. This earned him giggles from the boy.

"Pretty clothes are like a pretty saddle, but it is the animal you ride that matters."

The boy cocked his head to the side. "But what about fighting for money? Mama said the elves pay lots to have orcs fight for them and that I should get good at fighting so they'll pay me lots when I'm older."

Batugei smiled. Some of the coin he'd given to Radnatani was from mercenary work. "True, but when you get coin, you can only spend it. There then gone. A goat, you can milk and then milk it each day after. It can mate and make more goats. You can slaughter it for meat and hide. It is wealth that makes more wealth, better wealth than coins. An orc with only coins is poorer than an orc with only goats. People know your mother is rich because she owns so many animals, not because of her pretty clothes."

The boy idly picked at the loose thread, chewing his lip. Batugei withdrew a piece of hard cheese from a pouch at the north of his belt, broke off a piece for the boy, and then snacked on the rest.

"Cehn I haf-" The boy swallowed and spoke again. "Can I have a bunch of animals some day?"

"You might," he replied, grinning. "If you are strong and wise and lucky. But men do not herd, they craft and fight. You will have a woman, like Radnatani, who will take your animals and raise them. They are good at looking after many. Men look after one, and that favored animal will be your truest wealth. Then you, and she, will be rich and you can sew her very pretty clothes and she will be very happy."

The boy frowned at something, then looked up at Batugei. "But will I be happy?"

"If she is, then you will be," said Batugei with a sigh. "It is the way of things."

"I don't think mama looks very happy right now," said the boy, pointing.

Radnatani, with Nokai jogging to keep up, was stomping over, expression fierce.

"How did-" was as far as Batugei got.

"That dwarf has sucked the marrow from my bones! Go! Be useful and take something from the Hatagins," she barked while making shooing motions.

Nokai whispered something and the head woman spun around, adding, "And take Berkedai with you! I will geld him if I hear any whining right now!"

Batugei shot the boy a wink and then called back, "I will bring you back a fat steer and the Hatagins will chew grass in their fury. Then you will be smiling again."

Radnatani snorted. "You want me to smile? Bring me a bull I can breed. Or a rhino. We have too few rhinos. Now go!"

Batugei whistled, a high, piercing sound. Off in the northern pasture a zebra raised its head, the beads woven into its mane catching the sunlight. A second whistle and it came trotting over.

As he gathered his gear, Batugei grinned and said in a low voice to the boy, "When the woman is happy, you will be happy. And when the woman is mad, you will leave, and you will be happy. Just be sure you make her happy when you come home and all is well."

"But what if you can't find a rhino when you come back?" asked the boy.

The grin widened. "That's when you go fight for the elves or go drive a wagon for coin. After a few seasons gone, the women will be happy you are home, rhino or no rhino."

* * *

Three orcs rode north, two astride horses that were flanking the one zebra-rider in the middle. A large wolf padded alongside the easternmost rider, a fact which made the horse beneath wary. The westernmost rider was speaking. Loudly.

"-my Khurdan can outpace any zebra," boasted Berkedai, the barrel-chested orc sitting high in the saddle atop his horse. Where many orcs favored a large, powerful weapon to intimidate and end fights swiftly, Berkedai had dozens of knives strapped to him, some for throwing, some for carving, and others, long knives that edged into being swords, for melee.

Batugei hadn't had the heart to tell him his trade knives had sold so poorly. Instead, he gave Sudal's beaded mane an affectionate pat and said, "My Sudal can run longer than your Khurdan. You would escape only to be caught minutes later, your mount too fatigued to fight. Plus, the flies bite zebras less than horses."

"Yes, because zebras are sour in taste and temperament," replied Berkedai. "My Khurdan never bites or kicks unless told to. We all remember the welts you had breaking in Sudal," and the brown-skinned orc chuckled.

Batugei laughed as well, head and shoulders bobbing in time to Sudal's movement underneath. They were riding for the Hatagins' southern pastures and would have to be quiet soon. But for now, the old, old argument between zebra-rider and horse-rider could continue. "It means he is more spirited in a fight. Wouldn't you agree, Buqa?"

Berkedai and Batugei turned to their east to look at the orc riding silently beside them. The hunter was the color of grass and had a prominent chin. A scar deepened the natural cleft in the chin, a scar which continued down to his collarbone and under his clothes. He was only recently recovered enough to go raiding and, despite his natural reticence, was eager to be out again.

It was several long seconds before the laconic orc said, "I think Khargis would eat either if allowed." The large wolf padding beside Buqa's borrowed mount panted, teeth visible for all as if to underline the point.

Then Buqa pointed north-west, the keen-eyed hunter spotting something.

Rhinos.

All at once the three orcs went silent and rode lower in the saddle, trying to present a smaller profile against any women who might be herding the crash of rhinos.

As the group ahead became clearer, Batugei watched intently, a plan forming. The men had fewer ranks separating them than the women did, but by unspoken agreement Batugei was in charge.

If nothing else, Radnatani would blame him if the raid was a failure.

"Buqa, send Khargis ahead. There are calves, so the crash will close in to protect them," said Batugei. "Then we'll spot any women present, drive them off, and-"

The words died in his throat as Khargis growled. All turned west, following the wolf's gaze, and saw-

"Gods _damn_ it," muttered Batugei.

The silhouette of a warrior was unmistakable, shoulders half again as broad as a normal male's, with an upper body like a slab of muscle. That this one was astride a terror bird that was sprinting at them faster than even a horse could run? It meant this raid had just turned very sour very fast.

Berkedai went for his knives. "Do we fight?"

Buqa favored spear and javelins, good for bringing prey down from a distance, not that it had saved him from being gashed across face and body during his last, ill-fated hunt.

Butagei shook his head, hands raising up, palms out so that the warrior could see his surrender. "No. We fight only if he makes it a fight." He cracked a grin and said before a sardonic laugh, "Though I am comforted by the fact that if we must run, my dear Sudal will tire last."

Berkedai picked up the laugh but Buqa only glared ahead in wary silence.

The warrior slowed his mount to a stop fifteen yards to their west. He was greenish-brown and huge in a way only a warrior could be. Were he to dismount and they stay atop theirs, he would probably be able to look them in the eyes.

His terror bird was of a breed built for size, as it would have to be to carry a warrior on its back. It started with long-taloned claws rising up to a body that was a whirl of brown, blue, and red feathers. A long neck extended up, the bird probably able to peer over an elephant's shoulder if needed. The neck ended with a massive, hooked beak between two solid black eyes, its gaze intense and hungry. The blue-red feathers were further decorated with metal discs that would flutter in the wind when it ran.

Terror birds weren't native to this region and were therefore expensive, but the Hatagins were wealthy. They would have to be to feed a warrior outside of the mating seasons.

"Three Daguur whelps sniffing around," said the warrior with a voice as deep as a bull's.

Butagei smiled, arms still upraised. "And a Hatagins warrior here to greet us. We didn't expect such hospitality."

The warrior scowled, probably buying him time to digest Butagei's words. If an orc gorged himself on meat long enough he could transform into a warrior. He would grow larger, stronger, tougher, and capable of fighting with a rage and tenacity that made their race legendary on the battlefield. However, he would grow ravenous, stupider, and more impulsive in the process.

Butagei had undergone the transformation a few times himself. He enjoyed the rush of it, but found he missed his wits after the fact.

"What are you doing here?" barked the warrior after a long second's thought, an axe so large it looked like a Hob back-banner visible over his shoulders.

Butagei kept his smile firmly in place, his gestures slow and well clear of his weapons. Warriors needed little provocation to resort to violence. "A bull sat in a nettle and ran off. We were sent to return him since our women feared your warriors."

The warrior nodded and his massive shoulders lowered a touch. The pride swelled even more than the muscles in a warrior.

"Either the bull has gone into your lands, and is yours, or we have lost his trail and must double-back to find it. Either way, we will be going," said Butagei with as much ease as he could muster.

The warrior shook his head; it appeared he wasn't _that_ dumb. "Like you say, if the bull enters our lands, it is ours. You are on Hatagins land now. Give me your beasts."

Buqa and Berkedai's hands both inched visibly closer to their weapons.

"Surely you don't mean to take a favored animal from his orc?" said Butagei, his own hands itching for the hilt of the greatsword slung across his back.

The warrior paused long enough in replying that Butagei jumped back in, saying, "Everyone speaks of how wealthy the Hatagins are, but if they are stealing favored animals then the talk must be lies. Are the Hatagins so poor and honorless they would shame themselves before all the other orcs of the Great Savanna?"

The warrior blinked and scowled. Then he said in that basso voice of his, "You can keep your favored animals. Any who speak poorly of Hatagins honor will pay for their lies."

That was enough to slice through the mounting tension. With Sudal, Khurdan, and Khargis safe, the three had much less reason to fight. Orcs and animals combined could probably have brought down the warrior, mount and all, but it'd be an iffy thing, with several left maimed or dead in the attempt. Certainly not worth possession of a single horse.

Buqa dismounted. With a gesture from its master, Khargis heeled. Then the orc led the mount slowly over to a thick bit of scrub and tied the reigns firmly. The warrior would claim it after they'd left, when the risk of an ambush was passed.

The three turned and headed due south, Buqa climbing onto the back of Khurdan while Khargis loped alongside. Orcs, as a rule, were stronger than the other races even before warriors were taken into account. Unlike the humans, however, they couldn't jog endlessly, being built for power over stamina. Buqa was a hunter, his favored animal a wolf instead of a steed of some kind, so he was used to long stretches afoot, but it was best to get clear from the area quickly.

Once they were several miles away, Berkedai growled, "Running into a warrior on patrol? Have one of you spited a god or insulted a spirit? I have always made my burnt offerings and didn't ask to breed my good luck with your bad."

Buqa shook his head, prominent chin scraping the leather armor of Berkedai's back. "He was taking his terror bird out to hunt, most like. It'd be snacking on their lambs if he didn't."

"Damn shame to lose the horse, though," muttered Berkedai.

All three nodded.

"Do we go back?"

The two on Khurdan's back looked west at Batugei.

The orc thought.

"I'm in no hurry to return," he said after a moment. "But I won't lead us into a raid without a plan. We were unlucky this time so we need to make some luck for the next or we tempt the gods to punish us for stubbornness. Worse, we tempt Radnatani."

That drew a response from the pair, even the reticent Buqa managing a chuckle.

Batugei continued. "I say we go for their western pasture. They won't expect it and it's nearer the river so it's probably where the wealthier women graze their herds."

"But how will we get there unnoticed?" asked Berkedai.

Buqa cleared his throat. "I know a way," adding a few seconds later, "But it is not pleasant."

* * *

There weren't many trees on the Great Savanna and fewer forests. This one, a devil's garden, was one of the exceptions. Only one type of tree grew in a devil's garden and those trees were nests for lemon ants. Any animal that tried to eat the leaves would be bitten as surely as if they had thrust their nose into an anthill. Anything taller than a blade of grass that tried to grow there would be beset by a tiny but relentless army so as not to challenge the growth of more nest-trees.

A few lizards which consumed the ants lived there, but for everything else, the devil's garden may as well have been a desert. Just walking through meant stepping lightly or the lemon ants would have a chance to swarm up boot and hoof alike.

The three of them made sure to feed and water their animals before entering, because there would be no resting within.

Sure enough, after several exhausting hours of travel through endless, repeating forest, they emerged onto a bluff overlooking the Hatagins' western pasture.

Not for the first time, Batugei was grateful his people had a very good sense of direction.

Below, cattle grazed. But what truly drew the eye was the pair of elephants overlooking them. A woman sat on the back of an adult female, lounging in a howdah with fabric in place to ward off the flies. A smaller male, a bull but barely, lingered nearby.

"I think I know what would make Radnatani forgive us a lost horse," said Batugei with an enormous grin.

* * *

Berkedai had wanted to round up the entire herd of cattle and capture the woman for ransom. He was young, only two years an adult at fifteen, and high on the thrill of victory.

Batugei, however, was twenty-two and could expect to be feeling the weight of age on him in a few short years. He had cultivated wisdom from his experience, rather than merely scars, and pointed out that driving more than thirty head of cattle would be slow with only two riders, elephants or no. Slow enough they would likely be caught. And any female owning an elephant was a female that would pay you her ransom with a vendetta to match.

If a Hatagins warrior slew them in the following season, Radnatani would accept _diya,_ blood money, in payment rather than start a feud. You didn't become head woman without knowing how to best to cull a herd.

Instead, they tied up the woman in her howdah and drove off the sho-bakemonos assisting her, all without inflicted any real injuries. They took the bull and the five best cattle from the herd: enough to profit but not enough to anger the Hatagins into retaliation.

The bull proved willful and Buqa was more a hunter than a rider, so he mounted Sudal instead. As such they rode into the village right as the sun was mating with the horizon, Batugei astride the bull, the cattle driven before them.

Cries of surprise soon became cheers as the entire village came out to see.

Radnatani was waiting for him when he climbed down from the elephant.

"I'm sorry," Batugei was quick to say before the head woman could speak.

She looked surprised at his words.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, "for I said I would bring you a rhino." His smile was bright as the sun at noon.

Radnatani laughed. "I ask for a rhino and you bring me an elephant?! Now I am sorry I didn't demand a triceratops!"

"Then I would have to bring you a dragon, and the kobolds would invade to get their god back." Batugei patted the bull's flank. "Too much hassle, I think. You were wise to ask for a rhino after all."

Radnatani laughed again then said loudly to one of her daughters, "Fetch a steer for slaughter. We feast in celebration!" and her declaration was met with cheers from across the village.

Then Radnatani drew Batugei by the hand, her yurt visible in the distance. "You, come with me."

Batugei went unresisting but he did say loud enough to be certain the others heard, "And Berkedai and Buqa? I would not have them gnawing bones while I feast."

Radnatani waved him off. "They may gnaw on my sisters, and if they are foolish enough to call them bones, we will have two fewer men to share the meat with." The laugh from the crowd became whistles as Buqa and Berkedai were each led toward a yurt not their own.

"Besides," added Radnatani. "Mating season approaches and all of the women agree that you desperately need the practice, Batugei."

This was met with howls of laughter, from men and women alike.

"For any women interested in instructing, my yurt is over there," replied Batugei as he was led onward. "Though I may not be sleeping there tonight."

"You won't be sleeping at all tonight if I have my say," and with that Radnatani pushed him through the flap onto the furs and blankets within.

* * *

Some asked Batugei if he would take the bull for his favored animal. An orc's favored animal, by choice and by necessity, would change several times during his life, after all.

After some thought his response to the questions was 'no.' While an elephant steed would be most impressive, he would have to raid and go on mercenary work constantly to keep it healthy and decorated as a favored animal was meant to be kept. That wasn't the life he wanted, and besides, he was fond of Sudal.

Nearly every male in the village considered taking the elephant for himself but none that could credibly lay claim to it did, and for much the same reason. Which was why, when the time for the winter migration came, the bull was driven at the front of their livestock so the Daguur herd could flaunt their wealth and good fortune.

All save the oldest and the ill (and the sho-bakemonos) packed up their yurts for the migration. For the livestock the reverse was true, with the old and feeble led on for the culling that was to come.

There was only so much grass and so much feed to be had during the winter. It was reserved for the young and valuable.

After many days of travel, the herds converged at the Four River Fortress, built by an orcish ruler beyond memory and one of the only true cities their race bothered to found.

There was a great mingling between the disparate orc herds, distant brothers and cousins reuniting, for a woman stayed with her herd but men could migrate, be captured, or be bought. Tales were told, boasts made, alliances strengthened, grievances aired, favored animals performed or competed, all while the curdled milk was passed freely about.

On the third day the men began to sweat, the liquid thick with scent. They grew bold, aggressive, and show fights broke out, especially where there were women watching. That was the signal for the great cull to begin, animals slaughtered in the hundreds, the entire night spent feasting on meat and blood.

As the horizon birthed the sun on the fourth day the women became fertile, growing as bold or bolder than even the males, and the mating season began in earnest. It continued for four days, as did the nightly feasts.

A male, if allowed to gorge on meat for a month, could transform into a warrior and become as mighty to other orcs as orcs were to the other races. During a mating season, a male could achieve the same in a matter of days.

Batugei towered over Radnatani, his frame expanded half-again in every direction. Prominent tusks jutted out from his lower jaw where none had been a week prior. He felt ravenous, for meat, for mating, for violence, for life, as did the mass of orcs that stretched out in every direction.

A horn sounded, long and loud. Buqa, who felt the transformation more than most and stood a full head higher than even Batugei, bellowed his excitement in response. Berkedai, Batugei, and the others of their herd picked up the call. Other herds joined and for a moment a thousand throats drowned out all else.

The war-priestess emerged, standing atop the elephant bull the Daguur herd had brought. Radnatani preened: she would able to boast of this for years to come. 

Enhanced by her god's power, the priestess’ voice was like a thunderclap stretched into words. "Orcs! Warriors! I have been gifted with a vision, a target we will raid that will make us powerful beyond compare!"

The throng roared back, excitement growing into a frenzy.

"The dwarves buy the goods of our people with an endless appetite but offer only scraps in return. They hide in their burrows like meerkats, but they hoard everything, the crafts of your fathers and your father's fathers and your father's father's fathers buried beneath the earth."

Batugei felt outrage sweep through him, a warrior's temperament fertile grazing for it even without the priestess' exhortations.

"And piled high beside the toil of our people is bronze!"

The warriors roared.

"Iron!"

Even the women joined in the shout.

"Steel!"

There was no orc, no person of any race, that didn't covet the dwarves' miraculous metal. The Hobs had stolen the secret of iron working from the dwarves and carved for themselves an empire larger than any known. If any could claim the secret of steel for themselves, they would no doubt be greater still.

"We will ride on the dwarves! We will dig them out of their burrows and we will plunder their nests! Then we will be powerful enough to claim the herds and lives of any we wish!"

Batugei rocked on his feet, mind reeling. It was unheard of, an idea that could only be the result of divine inspiration. Everyone knew dwarves were the sort of prey that cost you greatly for too little meat. Their flesh became stone, their merchants traveled armed, and they had little true wealth, only coin and crafts.

But now, blood pumping through his mighty frame, Batugei wanted nothing more than to be the first to descend on this novel prey.

A group of orcs was called a herd. When the herds gathered, they became a horde.

The answering roar of the horde was loud beyond hearing.

* * *

Sudal was laden with supplies, as was every other mount available. There would be hunting and foraging on the way to the dwarven hold, but not enough for an army of warriors.

In time few of them would be warriors still, the change lasting only a week unless the orcs continued to feast. But many would fall in the assault and that would mean fewer with which to share the meat: victory or starvation awaited orcs when they marched to war.

The elephant was buried under supplies and, when those ran out, it would be butchered for more.

Batugei mounted Sudal and rode over to where Radnatani and the other women were departing. They would return to the village, many of them pregnant with litters. They would look after the herds while the males were at war. Most whelped three in a litter, and boys were twice as common as girls. Males were expendable where the women were not; it was the way of things.

"Be well, Radnatani." Batugei tried to flash her a grin though the tusks made it difficult. "I will see you in a season."

She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness there. "Be brave, Batugei. Bring me a rhino when you come."

"With dwarven steel- I mean, I could steal you one with-" He shook his head. There was a joke there with 'steel' and 'steal' but it was hard to think of such things like this. "I'll try," he said instead.

He waved and, with his knees, he directed Sudal south-east to join the horde.

* * *

Somehow, impossibly, the dwarves had been prepared. Fortifications were in place, soldiers ready at narrow places where the warriors could only attack in ones and twos, and the whole assault devolved into a siege.

Orcs could not win a siege.

With tools stolen from captured miners, the warriors tore stone from stone and collapsed walls and tunnels both. The orcs would either drive the dwarves from hiding or dig their spoils out of the rubble that was once the dwarven hold.

The dwarven host emerged, armed and armored, and the war-priestess led the horde in a charge.

Berkedai was slain. Buqa lost Khargis, his western hand, and earned a host of additional scars. Batugei, more cunning than most, led his warband into a flank that captured more dwarves than he could easily count, numbers being especially hard for a warrior.

By the time he'd secured his captives, the battle was over, the priestess slain, the orcs retreating.

Two-in-five survived and only one-in-five was unmaimed.

There was meat aplenty to see them home.

A dwarven priest, an ollam, joined the captives willingly. Everyone knew a dwarf without their priest would wither and die. The ollam would sustain the captives until they could be ransomed back.

It was part of the long march back to the village when the ollam approached Batugei. "[You're the one in charge, right?]" he asked, speaking in Halfling, the language of trade and the only one shared between them.

The orc was allowing his transformation to fade, his wits returning bit-by-bit even as his muscles shrank. His skin hung loose in places where it had previously been stretched over a much larger frame. It would revert in time, but it left his clothes ill-fitting and, he suspected, his features looking melted.

"[I am,]" he said, though it came out as something like, 'Hi em,' the words awkward since only one of his tusks had fallen out. Buqa walked only a few paces back, his remaining hand near a weapon in case the ollam tried anything sneaky.

Tensions were high between captives and captors.

The ollam ignored the escort. "[If we don't stop for at least two days, five dwarves will lose arms or legs. I need to shape the stone before permanent damage sets in.]"

Batugei gestured over his shoulder. "[Can you fix Buqa's hand while you're at it?]"

The dwarf looked back and then scowled at Batugei, his expression answer enough.

"[If he can lose his hand and not complain then the captives can do the same.]"

The ollam had to jog slightly to keep pace, thick dwarven legs struggling to match the longer orcish stride. After a minute of silence he said, "[Tin. It helps with the wounds and should forestall some of the worst damage.]"

Batugei let the quiet stretch out. It was a tactic he used with merchants sometimes, letting them be the first to name a price.

The ollam glanced over his shoulder again then said, "[I can't replace the hand, but I have some magics that should help the remains heal without infection. It would probably reduce the pain as well.]"

Batugei raised an eyebrow on his droopy face. "[You would treat my men for tin?]"

The ollam nodded once, mouth a thin line beneath his facial hair.

Batugei slowed to a pace that was more natural for the priest and he mustered a toothy smile. "[Sudal will be cross with me afterwards, but you have a deal.]" He held out his hand and the ollam, eyeing it for a long second, shook.

Batugei whistled for Sudal and, a moment later, began cutting free some of decorated strands of zebra hair, colorful metal beads catching the light.

* * *

Orcs could see at night but many of their animals could not. All rested after dark save for the sentries keeping an eye on the captives. Batugei was roasting an antelope haunch over a fire a stone's throw from the ollam, the latter muttering over bits of metal coated in dwarf blood.

They were a strange people, dwarves.

"[Hungry?]" asked the orc.

This was the fourth time he'd interrupted the priest while he'd been doing... something. The ollam muttered a phrase that was most definitely _not_ a spell and then set his bloody metal aside. He sat down south-west of Batugei. "[Sure. Plenty of iron in the meat, if nothing else.]"

Batugei cut a piece free, skewered it on a stick, and handed it over, then did the same for himself. One hand continued to slowly rotate the haunch over the fire while he ate.

After a few minutes of quiet, the orc asked, "[How did you know we were coming?]"

The dwarf tried to fish a piece of gristle from his beard then faced the orc. "[Eh?]"

"[The horde. It was a surprise, a raid none had ever thought of before. The orcs have always been at peace with the dwarves, a few scuffles with merchants aside. Yet your people were ready.]" Batugei tore a strip of meat free from the stick, sharp teeth shredding it before swallowing. "[How?]"

The ollam shook his head like an ancient male of fifty tutting at the folly and boasts of the fifteen-year-olds. "[You really don't know, do you?]" he said eventually.

Batugei, completely deadpan, replied, "[I do, but your voice is so lovely, I asked so I could listen to you say it.]"

The ollam goggled at him for a second before a coughing sound emerged. It took Batugei a second to recognize it as laughter.

"[We dwarves must seem awfully sour to you, don't we?]"

"[Your merchants treat us like a knife in the gut is as likely as payment,]" answered Batugei casually. The sizzle of the meat reminded him to turn the spit. "[Earns them few friends.]"

There was that coughing sound again. Then the priest drew himself up... as much as a dwarf could, anyway. "[I am an ollam, a keeper of the dwarven histories. Know that I speak the truth.]” He paused and Batugei nodded, willing to hear him out.

“[One thousand, six hundred, and- six hundred and- We use different numbers than the halflings so this makes this difficult.]" He shook his head. "[One thousand, six hundred, and thirty years ago, _roughly_ , the orcs of the Great Savanna invaded the dwarves.]"

Batugei realized his mouth had dropped and he closed it, poking himself with his remaining tusk in the process. He winced and tried to will the unwieldy tooth off his face all the faster, then said, "[So long ago no one remembers, the orcs and the dwarves fought and you have been on guard ever-]"

The ollam interrupted him. "[One thousand, three hundred and five years ago, roughly, the orcs of the Great Savanna invaded the dwarves.]"

Batugei rolled his eyes. "[Oh, well, since it was practically yesterday, I-]"

As if the orc hadn't spoken, the ollam continued. "[Another invasion came nine hundred and ninety-four years ago. Another, six hundred and fifty-two years ago. Another, three hundred and seventy-nine years ago. Every three centuries you invade, give or take a few decades.]" He shifted in his seat, the firelight reflecting off the holy symbol that hung from his neck. "[This one came more than seven decades later than usual; we were starting to get impatient,]" the ollam said, his voice laced with humor that was as dry as sun-bleached bone.

The meat was sizzling again but this was bigger than burnt antelope. Batugei ignored it as he stared at the dwarf for long minutes. Eventually he muttered, "[But why-]"

"[Don't ask me! They're _your_ gods!]" bellowed the ollam, so loud and sudden several of the other sentries looked over, weapons catching the firelight.

Batugei waved them back to their posts.

Still agitated, the dwarf rose, head shaking like a bull attempting to ward off flies. "[There are dwarves alive who saw the invasion three hundred and seventy-nine years ago. They tell the stories, they show the scars, and they point out where the masonry has been rebuilt. There are names in the shrines, names known to still-living dwarves who died at the hands of your people three hundred and seventy-nine years ago. And though no elders live that saw the invasion six hundred and fifty-two years ago, or the one nine hundred and ninety-four years ago, the histories carved into the bones of the earth remember and so too do the dwarves. You think us sour because we treat you as dangerous when all you wish to do is barter. But every dwarf that lives near the Great Savanna knows that one day, likely within our lifetime, we will see these friendly herdsmen descend on us en masse, to sunder our hold, plunder our vaults, and slaughter us to the last!]"

The ollam whipped his head around and spat, the fire sizzling in response. "[The dwarves and the orcs have been at war for more than a thousand years.]" His hands closed into fists. "[That only we recall is your race's failing, not ours.]"

The ollam stormed off, going beyond the edge of the firelight. One of the sentries looked to Batugei for guidance. He waved to allow the priest to pass.

It's not as though the ollam would escape and leave his fellow dwarves to wither.

* * *

"I ask you to bring me a rhino and you return with a host of dwarves?"

Radnatani's face was a mix of warmth and skepticism.

Batugei's expression was sallow, his eyes lacking their usual mischievous spark. But he found a smile from somewhere, the gaps where his tusks used to be visible as he grinned. "I'm sorry. I did not realize before but it is the season for dwarf-hunting and, sadly, not rhino-hunting."

The head woman eyed the assorted captives. They would fetch a high ransom... in time. But they'd need to be housed, fed, and cared for in the meanwhile. One more chore for her women to deal with.

Still, Batugei had done well and, though she'd be loath to admit it, Radnatani had felt his absence. She took his hand to lead him toward her yurt.

Batugei smiled another sallow smile, raised her hand, and gave it a kiss. "I'm sorry but the raid has left Sudal weary. If I don't tend to him he is liable to piss in my yurt and run off in spite."

A glance showed Sudal cavorting with the other zebras. Radnatani raised an eyebrow but allowed the obvious lie to go unchallenged. "Very well, tend to your zebra. I have dwarves to feed now."

She was going to start organizing things when she smiled and turned east toward Batugei. "If I milk them, do you think iron will fill the bucket?" she quipped.

Batugei, ever joking and quick with words, didn't hear or pretended not to as he walked in the direction of his zebra. His shoulders were slumped and his head, low.

Radnatani had raised enough beasts to recognize when one had been broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it can be tamed, the orcs have tamed it. If it can be ridden, the orcs have ridden it.
> 
> That brings us to the end of these vignettes. It would be fun to talk about the hobs, and maybe to pop in on an example of humanity in this setting, but _Connie Swap_ is coming off of hiatus shortly and that's too large a time commitment for me to do both. Plus holidays: the devourers of free time and productivity in equal measure.
> 
> It's been a lot of fun dipping my toe in this setting and, when _Connie Swap_ is done and I'm ready to switch projects for real, all of this will make that transition much, much easier. I don't know if more content will go up on AO3 when I do make the switch --fingers crossed, I'd like to turn this stuff into a novel some day-- but I wouldn't rule it out either. However, that may be a while yet; my co-creators and I have still got a lot of story to tell in CS.
> 
> Regardless, I hope you've enjoyed these, you fine few readers. If you have thoughts regarding the vignettes, on the ideas or characters on display here, or on the prose themselves, feel free to share them in the comments. As the folks over in CS can attest, I take reader commentary seriously, doubly so for something nascent like this. Plus, reader commentary is the wind beneath my wings, so don't be shy.
> 
> Thanks again and happy New Year. Bye!


	6. Ueda Atsushi - Hobs

Ichirō saw a dragon once. 

It was enormous, scales the color of a ripe cherry as the fruit darkened from red into something almost purple. The awe of its passage overhead was enough to make the slaves working the fields grow quiet.

The slaves were never quiet.

A few hours later a procession of kobolds approached, a hundred or more small, blue lizard-people walking the raised but narrow road that wove through the flooded fields of rice. They wore robes of red that were brilliant against their blue scales and they sang in yapping voices as they traveled past. The air above the procession strobed with colors, sourceless fires conjured by kobold sorceries that left streaks in Ichirō's vision even after he closed his eyes.

They smelled of spices and soot.

Ichirō, fur the light amber of a cub and his stripes not yet darkened, asked the overseer what their song was about. He asked with his words instead of his hands because the overseer was not well-versed in proper Hob.

The overseer, an aged orc with skin the color and texture of leather, knew a smattering of the kobold tongue. He said it was in praise of their god, the dragon, who was challenging a rival for territory.

That night the horizon glowed; an unnatural sunset that persisted until dawn. The price of cherries that year was three times normal with the Ishida family's orchard half destroyed in the clash. It was said that the dragon basked in the blaze afterward while its kobolds drove ensorcelled cattle and slaves into its maw.

Ichirō thought a great deal about the encounter and he and his slave brother spoke of little else. Eventually their curiosity grew loud enough his father heard. Jirō was flogged, but gently for he would be a citizen one day, and Ichirō was banished from supper to 'dine on answers and then be silent thereafter.'

Legios, the family scribe and a human priest, led the cub away from the family home to the slaves' chapel. The chapel was built far away so the noise of the slaves' worship did not disturb the hobs living in and around the family home.

It smelled of incense and sweat.

Ichirō asked about dragons. Legios claimed that dragons were powerful but they were mortal, while gods were greater still. Ichirō's eyes went wide, for he could not imagine anything greater than the dragon.

Ichirō asked if Legios' god was greater than the dragon and the scribe said with a grin that he was. Ichirō asked to see this god and Legios eagerly led the young hob to the chapel's altar where he reverently withdrew a sickle made of tarnished silver and a threshing board made of rare wood.

The hob did not understand how a tarnished sickle was greater than a dragon. The priest explained that his god was too great to inhabit this world and so his worshipers used symbols to represent him.

Had Legios ever witnessed his god with his own eyes? No, but he felt his presence daily, channeling it when he worked his humble magics.

Had Legios' god ever burned down an orchard? Of course not. His god acted through his followers and through the growth of the crops of the harvest.

Then, Ichirō asked, if his god was so great, why were his followers slaves?

Legios started to answer several times but always stopped, unsure of how to speak to the Ueda family heir. He smelled of fear. Finally he said that Khanate iron was strong in this world but that faith was strong in the next.

Ichirō's eyes went wide once more and he signed his understanding, hands moving rapidly. Legios seemed pleasantly surprised by this but was unable to say anything further as the hob cub was already moving as quickly as he could without being loud. Ichirō was eager to find Jirō --who was no doubt recovering from his flogging in the room they shared-- so he could explain this new insight.

Iron was greater than gods!

No wonder Asuzandaro, the first Khan, had conquered so much of the world armed with the dwarven secret of iron. No wonder slaves were allowed to worship but only soldiers could wield iron.

He had to admit that iron probably couldn't compete with dragons, though. That kobolds chose dragons for gods made sense to the cub but, as Ichirō was not a kobold, he would have to place his faith in iron instead.

Three years later, Ichirō and Jirō became adults, fur light orange with the red-orange stripes common of hobs from Mutsu province, their height marking them as well-nourished and therefore from a prosperous family. The honorable magistrate, pleased with their father's offering, elevated Jirō from slave to citizen.

The honorable magistrate smelled of cherries and mustache wax.

Ichirō, in the presence of the honorable magistrate, requested that he become a soldier and that Jirō take his place as family heir. With their father unable to object in front of the honorable magistrate, Ichirō took his new name, Atsushi or 'faithful one.' Jirō was renamed Ichirō as was fitting for the first son and heir of a land owner.

Under the glowering eyes of their father, the brothers embraced for a final time before one of the samurai assigned to the honorable magistrate's service escorted Atsushi away. There was no fort in Mutsu province and so Atsushi was bound for the one in neighboring Dewa.

* * *

Atsushi walked into the barracks mess hall and with a single sweep of his gaze knew who to communicate with. Hob soldiers ate quietly, spoke quietly, groomed one another quietly, all seated in strict accordance to the local hierarchy.

It smelled of shellfish and leather.

Were Atsushi here to eat, he would sit eleventh closest to the food and warmth of the kitchen, bumping Miura Teruo down a seat because his five years as a soldier outstripped Teruo's four. Gotō Daiichi, however, would remain in the tenth seat despite being only two years a soldier because he was massive and had the imperial coloration, orange fur and black stripes stretched over a muscular frame.

But Atsushi wasn't here to eat and so walked toward the back, approaching a quartet of junior recruits. They were sitting in a line along a mess hall bench, each picking and consuming vermin from the fur of the one in front of them. He stopped in front of the recruit at the head of the chain, the one being groomed without grooming.

[Come with me,] signed Atsushi before turning and heading for the door. That Ōtsuka Kenta rose quietly, leather armor well-maintained and therefore noiseless, was the first test passed. If the patrol went well, Kenta could expect to take his supper several seats closer to the kitchen.

The Khanate military had insignia, pins, and medals to denote rank but they were for the benefit of the humans, orcs, and sho-bakemonos in their numbers, not the hobs.

* * *

[The tall one behind the bar?] asked Kenta, weapons sheathed and hands signing. The gestures conveyed the words but it was the accompanying hisses, grunts, and clicks that told Atsushi that Kenta was addressing him respectfully though with the casual ease of soldiers in the field, that his question was non-rhetorical and was intended for only one listener.

The other races had difficulty producing and understanding this secondary vocabulary and so their Hob was simple, lacking all nuance or wit, unable to address or understand their superiors except in the plainest of ways.

With a single noise from the back of his throat Atsushi gave a negation. In response he signed back with, [The tall one serves another. Guess again,] the susurrus on his lips marking the order as a gentle one rather than a rebuke.

Kenta squinted through the grimy window a little longer. [The large one near the barrels?] he hazarded, a high whistle and a cough indicating how unsure he was in the guess.

Another negation, Atsushi humming low to add that this guess was further off the mark than the last. [The large one is a patron, not a member of the household.]

Kenta's teeth clacked in surprise and disbelief. Atsushi inhaling through flared nostrils was the hob-equivalent of a roar of laughter and a hearty slap on the back. A gesture and a dull click of his tongue was gentle encouragement for Kenta to try once more.

Kenta looked for a beat and then two, the subtle raising of the fur along his neck a sign of his focus. His ears began to flatten as his confidence left him. [The fat one with the scars?] the whistle of his uncertainty rising above the hearing of most races.

Atsushi made a trio of gestures ended with a click, then had to repeat them, such was Kenta's surprise. [The woman with the tattooed hands,] he insisted.

The word of a superior carried significant weight to a hob, so it was very telling when Kenta conveyed incredulity via a shake of both hands and a lilting chirp. [The lord of that tavern is... a small, female... _convict?]_

Crimes were sometimes branded or tattooed on the backs of the hands so that the criminal would be unable to communicate with any other civilized person without broadcasting their perfidy.

Atsushi made a flicking motion that conveyed his confidence, adding, [The noisy races take slowly to civilization; expect madness and you will be surprised less often. Learning this will help you to maintain order among them.] With that, the pair readied themselves and stepped in from outside.

It smelled of alcohol and unwashed bodies.

The noise of the tavern dropped as Atsushi and Kenta entered. Kenta relaxed, misinterpreting the quiet as a sign of respect. He was from a military family, his slaves all other hobs, so he had much to learn.

Atsushi knew that to the humans and halflings present this was them giving a sign of fear and dishonesty in the presence of the two soldiers. Fortunately, Kenta was a hob and noticed without conscious thought that his superior was on alert and so swiftly became wary as well.

The two moved through the interior in step with one another, walking lightly between the tables as they approached the improbable lord of this establishment.

[This belongs to your establishment does it-] began Atsushi but the female human shook her head uncomprehendingly.

"Don't know Hob signs," said the convict lord, voice overloud. Her eyes searched Atsushi's expression for clues, a further sign she was ignorant of hob ways. A wiser lord would be listening carefully and watching Atsushi's hands.

One of the patrons behind them shifted in his seat, Kenta's hand edging closer to his weapon in response. Atsushi pursed his lips and made a faint whistle the others likely didn't notice. It was enough to force the nervous hob recruit to conform to his superior's nonaggressive lead.

Atsushi forced a smile and held out a coin purse to the woman. It was made of battered scrap leather, the same worn by most of the patrons present in the tavern. Sewn in cheap red thread were the four letters of a name but the middle two had been worn away leaving only J--O. "This belongs to your home, correct?" and he had to will his free hand still so that he didn't sign as he spoke. He opened the purse and emptied the contents into his palm: eight silver coins, two copper, and one gold. Two silver pieces were transferred conspicuously into Atsushi's possession while the rest were returned to the purse. "A citizen found this in front of your home. He gave it to a soldier to return."

The convict lord stared at Atsushi as if his fur was blue, then looked at the battered purse, presumably owned by some J-named person now more than one-and-a-half gold poorer. She snatched it and gave him a smile that was all teeth. "I'll make sure Juno gets her purse back; the clumsy girl is always dropping things." A beat. "Can I offer either of you a drink? I imagine patrolling is thirsty work."

Atsushi took one last deep breath then straightened up. "Soldiers are forbidden from consuming alcohol while on patrol," he said imperiously. Then he winked --a gesture he'd practiced for hours with one of his human slaves-- and said in a friendlier tone, "However, as you can see our water skins have gone empty," and he withdrew a very obviously full skin. "We would gladly accept a refill."

With a return wink the convict lord took Atsushi's and Kenta's water skins, walked behind the counter, emptied them and refilled them from a cask of ale. The pair of hobs took these back and departed, the tavern returning to its normal din in their wake.

Several streets later Atsushi handed the water skin to a beggar, one-legged and singing for charity from the street corner. With a chirp and a gesture from his superior, Kenta did the same, though the way his fur refused to lay down and the cast of his breathing was proof of his ongoing confusion.

[We do not consume alcohol on patrol,] stated Atsushi as the pair worked their way back toward the tavern along a circuitous side route. With a rumble in the back of his throat he gave the statement the weight of an order.

A moment passed as they navigated the nest of alleys. [The louder races are suspicious of honorable soldiers returning money.] Then Atsushi clicked with the corner of his mouth, showing wry amusement. [But when two soldiers embezzle some silver and accept ale as an implicit bribe? Then ill-gotten fortune smiles upon them.]

The money was Atsushi's own though he hoped, if the investigation was successful, to be repaid by a pleased superior. Criminal elements within the Khanate survived on cunning and were best countered with cunning to match. With efficient motions, he retrieved the two silver coins and handed one to Kenta. [We wait. Alert me if you catch the scent.] The pair of soldiers leaned into the deepening shadows as flat noses and flared nostrils sampled the air. 

The copper was too likely to be spent during the day and the gold would either be hidden or exchanged for coins that could be more easily (and safely) spent. But six pieces of silver would likely remain with the convict lord as she went about her clandestine business, which was why Atsushi had only bothered to dab them with some of his expensive peppermint oil.

Were the criminal a hob, the coins would be less than worthless. However, the louder races lacked proper noses in addition to proper ears.

Having his slave sew a name into the coin purse before cutting away the middle letters was just to add to the deception. That it was his brother's childhood name was just Atsushi being nostalgic.

* * *

The den was in the 'abandoned' basement of a warehouse but was only accessible via a tunnel through an adjacent shop.

Warehouses were subject to inspection. The tool shop next door, however...

There was loud song on the stage and strong perfumes on the girls and cherries floating in every beverage, the fruit both pleasing and mildly intoxicating to hobs. The den was a way station in a smuggling ring that, among other contraband, offered hiding to escaped elven slaves. However, three nobles and the son of a daimyo were among those caught during the raid, viewing the scandalous performances all while inebriated on cherry wine.

The daimyo demanded a magisterial inquiry. When it was found that the chief investigating soldier had embezzled silver and patrolled drunk, the honorable magistrate deemed the investigation suspect and summarily dismissed it.

The soldier in question, rather than face magisterial judgement, offered to accept a transfer to Supanku: the deeply troubled province on the westernmost edge of the Khanate. The expression went 'better seppuku than Supanku' and so the transfer request was accepted, magistrate and daimyo satisfied that matters of justice and honor had been settled.

* * *

Atsushi traveled in a daze, every morning expecting to awaken back at his life in Dewa province. As they left Dewa he would awake outraged, teeth gnashing, his anger like a dragon wanting only a worthy target to visit destruction upon. He was part of a caravan transporting supplies to parts west, though the only one who would ride all the way out to Supanku without (swiftly as possible) traveling back east afterward.

But as they made their way further and further away, the outrage gave way to numbness, the dragon retreating to its lair in his soul, leaving Atsushi doing little but eating, drinking, resting, and tending to his armaments. The caravaneers found it easy enough to accept a hob who was aloof, untalkative, with eyes silently judging all they saw.

Generation by generation the Khanate had expanded outward: conquering, subjecting, and civilizing those of every new province added to the fold. This had been true since the time of the first Khan, Asuzandaro. This was true to the north, to the east, and to the south. It was not true to the west: six generations ago the Khanate conquered Supanku and halted.

The outer border of Supanku was so obvious that it needed no walls to mark it, though there were walls. West of Supanku was endless white: a great, flat plain where nothing grew and the ground was choked with salt.

When Supanku was invaded, it was home to two warring factions of humans. The Sheaim were secretive witch-kings who used semi-tame hydras and other ensorcelled beasts in war. The Borgeous were ruled by warrior-kings, fought with weapons of bronze, and raided their neighbors for slaves. Neither side accepted Khanate rule meekly but when it came time to appoint local auxiliaries among the conquered, the Borgeous were the obvious choice. So while the Sheaim were driven to the brackish swamps to the north-west, the Borgeous served at the pleasure of the local shoguns, comprising the bulk of the local soldiery and garrisoning the line of forts that bordered the great and salty waste.

The humans were reasonably civilized... for humans. Their Hob was atrocious and the local tongue was a guttural thing that sounded little different from the loud and messy sounds of their eating. However, they did recognize hierarchy and the primacy of both honor and strength. Their warriors were proud and their slaves were sufficiently deferential.

Hobs were always born in twos and siblings knew which was master and which was slave even before their milk teeth were out. Atsushi's father used to boast that his sons knew the difference even before their eyes had opened. Just as orcs were whelped knowing north from south, hobs were born knowing rulers from followers and these humans had learned some of the same, if by the slow work of generations.

It was to a Borgeous-made fort that Atsushi arrived, a squat structure built of stone crusted with salt. The western wall was tall and thick but the rest of the structures looked as though they were made as an afterthought, low and crude. The breeze carried salt with it, which left Atsushi's nose and eyes dry and stinging.

The fort smelled of brine and despair.

It was this that woke Atsushi from the waking dream of his travel. He hated this place and he hated those who'd forced him to come here. But it was a distant thing, fodder for the sleeping dragon, while he was outwardly the average hob soldier: aloof but alert, patient but prepared for violence.

There were few hobs and Atsushi joined them instantly and instinctively. With a glance it was clear he was worthy of respect by most of them. By the end of a five-minute exchange, he had settled naturally into the third rank of the local hierarchy. None disputed this for it was obvious.

The fort was supported by two wells: the western one which was unofficially reserved for the soldiers as they spent much of their time patrolling the wall, and the eastern one which was overwhelmingly and by necessity used by the slaves. The water of the western well smelled acrid and tasted worse and Atsushi could not bring himself to drink from it, slaking his thirst from the eastern. By nightfall he was fourth among the hobs, grooming the soldier who'd groomed him just one meal before. The humans joked at his expense; Atsushi only responded when honor dictated he must.

Pride slept with the dragon for it could not survive in a place like Supanku.

In his first week Atsushi noticed signs of corrosion on his gear, the iron reacting poorly to the omnipresent salt. He spent his next week bartering for every ounce of oil suitable to treat his equipment: Atsushi's journey west had shaken his faith in many things but not in iron. As he ground away the rust and applied his oils he conceded that the locals' preference for bronze was marginally more sensible than he had initially thought.

He fought his first abomination that week. It was difficult to watch the salt flats to the west, especially in evening when the sun reflected off the crystalline expanse, redoubling the intensity of its light. It was for this reason that he was surprised when a figure toppled over the wall and then _unfolded_. What Atsushi mistook at first for claws were actually gnashing mouths, the monstrosity being little save toothy maws and chitin-covered muscle. But iron was greater than chitin and Atsushi's armor preserved him while his swords messily ended the terror.

The locals carved eyewear out of wood and bone with only a thin, horizontal slit to see through which reduced the glare. Brashly he had rejected them as a human trifle, his nose, eyes, and ego stinging with his arrival. That night he bid his slave to trade for one from the slave of human soldier to spare Atsushi the indignity.

In his third week, a sickness began to spread, foremost among the soldiers though the slaves were not entirely spared. Few among the louder races groomed themselves properly, hygiene being a bastion of civilization that was harder than most for the hobs to instill in their unruly subjects. It was only when Atsushi's superior and the superior above him grew ill that he became concerned.

The fort normally used a cordoned off section of barracks for the ill but the epidemic had forced a temporary structure to be hastily assembled out of wood and canvas, little more than a long tent meant to contain the noisome ailing within, the salt-laced wind forcing it to lean against the adjacent barracks for support.

The fort smelled of rot and suffering.

By the fourth week there were few well enough to guard the walls. Atsushi walked the perimeter twice as many hours each day as when he'd first arrived. He imagined he could feel the vermin thriving in his fur, having been groomed too little of late.

There was a voice screaming and then many. Atsushi was patrolling with his second, Hiroji, a hob very low in the local hierarchy, scrawny and with stripes the color of mud. That he seconded Atsushi was proof of the plague's pervasive reach but lowly or not, he was a hob and so fell into step instinctively when Atsushi ran quietly toward the disturbance.

Three tumorous abominations were bludgeoning the remains of a soldier. One looked up and lurched in Atsushi and Hiroji's direction, prompting the other two to notice and do the same.

Without word, Atsushi stepped left and swung high with his katana while Hiroji used his naginata to stab low and to the right. A cough ending in a hiss meant that when Atsushi backpedaled quickly and crouched, Hiroji's bladed polearm was in place overhead, covering his retreat and leaving long gashes in the chest and cheeks of the horrors.

One abomination stumbled, tripping up another and forcing the third to slow its advance long enough to step clear of them. A gesture from Atsushi and the upright foe was having to contend with jabs and swipes of Hiroji's naginata. This was reprieve enough for Atsushi to decapitate the tripped abomination and then finish off the one pinned below. The third and final opponent batted the polearm aside only to be gutted and dispatched seconds later when Atsushi attacked from the flank.

Iron and superior coordination had swept Asuzandaro's enemies aside centuries ago and it remained true for the Khanate today.

From the wall’s vantage point it was clear that the infirmary was the epicenter of the disturbance. Sounds of conflict joined the din of the ailing and ululations of the monstrous.

Twice Atsushi and Hiroji dispatched abominations as they worked their way towards the structure. Once, Hiroji stood in plain view and rapped the butt of his naginata on flagstone, drawing the foe in so that Atsushi could emerge from hiding and attack from behind. The second time the roles were reversed, with Atsushi skirmishing briefly before retreating so that Hiroji could, hidden around a wall, swipe the feet out from under the beast and both finish it before it could right itself.

At no point were they able to find sign of their commanding hob and the few Borgeous soldiers they passed were too injured or undisciplined to join ranks with them.

Peering inside revealed that the infirmary was an abattoir. It was only when an abomination therein, a bulbous parody of a soldier, struggled with a limb too small to remove bandages from a limb six sizes too large that Atsushi realized the truth: the disease transformed the sick into tumorous horrors capable of nothing save lumbering violence.

Most of the garrison was transformed, transforming, or dead at the malformed hands of the former.

* * *

When the lamp oil ignited, the infirmary blazed like a pyre. The structure had been erected between a barracks --the one used as an ad hoc infirmary before-- and a woodworking shed used by coopers and carpenters. The fire spread to both and they burned to their foundations.

It was a hellish hour ensuring none escaped. It was another grim day finding stragglers: abominations which had wandered elsewhere due to injuries or confusion. The days to come were pitiless as additional sick were found and culled.

Atsushi slept less than three hours in four days. The remains of several hobs were found, some as casualties, others among the afflicted, but it was impossible to know what became of his commander. Twice there were attacks from, for want of a better phrase, conventional horrors that challenged the walls, neither alike save that they both bled ichor.

On the fifth day a relief force from a neighboring fort arrived. With them was a kobold sorcerer, blue scales visible beneath blue robes that crackled and sparked as if they contained a walking storm cloud instead of a halfling-sized figure.

He smelled of silk and the air after a lightning strike.

The mystic withdrew a forked rod of silvery metal and then waved it about, all while the hair and fur of those around stood on end. Atsushi felt a force pulling on the iron of his person and rust was leached from the soil, gathering on the blue lizard’s robes like clinging insects. 

Slowly the rod led the kobold to the western well. Sacks of white powder were emptied into the well, powder which, when mixed with water, became green miasma. Whatever abomination had snuck into the well and infected the water was, the kobold assured, utterly dead now. The well would need to be bricked up, the water now poisoned twice over, but it was no real loss as none would have been willing to drink from the well regardless.

The forked rod then led the kobold this way and that, divining the location of one transformed, buried under rubble but still barely alive, as well as five more infected. All were cut down and burned.

Finally the captain of the relief force, a human covered equally in scars and tattoos, said to the surviving garrison, “Who is your commanding officer?”

Bleary from five days of horror and combat, Atsushi signed in response. Fortunately Hiroji had stolen more sleep and so retained a measure of his wits. “He is,” said the mud-striped hob, nodding deferentially towards his better.

* * *

Slowly new auxiliaries arrived, conscripted from the locals by the overseeing shoguns. The well was filled with rubble and sealed, the barracks rebuilt. The sorcerer remained for two weeks, Atsushi understanding little of his actions and too busy commanding the forces to inquire.

Which was why he was bewildered and frustrated when the kobold insisted on visiting him in the commander's office nightly. Despite being small, weak, and noisy --all traits which screamed 'slave' to hob instincts-- it was known that kobolds were exceptions to the usual rules and so Atsushi maintained civility.

One evening the sorcerer spoke of a great hole in the center of the salt flat, like a wound in the land itself. From this hole abominations emerged, monstrosities of limitless variety and hunger. Some crawled, some burrowed, some ran, some flew. Some had great teeth, some had claws or pincers or whip-like tentacles, some oozed digestive juices, some had countless eyes while others had none. Some wanted only to kill you, others wanted to eat you, others had more horrible fates in store.

It was for this reason that the salt flat was known as the Flesh Waste. It was for this reason the Khanate had expanded no further west.

Another night Atsushi asked what the abominations were _for_. According to the kobold’s wise and scaly god, the abominations were weapons of an ancient war fought when there was naught but rock and bone and flesh and magic, before metal and before dwarves. The problem with weapons of flesh, the kobold explained, was that they could not be sheathed even after the war had ended.

On the final night Atsushi asked if the kobold’s god was the color of a ripe cherry. The sorcerer hissed sparks and said red dragons were nothing compared to the blue god of sand and lightning his clan served.

This wasn’t the first kobold Atsushi had asked over the years and each had claimed their god was greatest, whatever their color.

Atsushi commended the kobold on his faith, saying it seemed only prudent to have gods such as dragons. The kobold hissed his approval then asked who Atsushi worshiped.

The hob answered by laying his iron blade upon the table.

The kobold laughed small claps of thunder as if it were some great joke. Finally, as he moved to depart Atsushi’s office, he said that Atsushi was an iron egg trying to hatch.

* * *

When, three years later, Atsushi was elevated to the rank of samurai he discovered something unexpected in his quarters: an iron katana with scales and pentagons worked into a pommel of blue. He had to tend to it carefully for iron filings were attracted to it like clinging insects and when he laid the blade on silk or velvet he would find it minutes later oriented north as truly as any orc could point.

His first assignment was to the distant province of Hirata. He was to serve the local magistrate: supervising the local soldiery as they kept the peace and tracking down brigands that threatened the lucrative trade between the Khanate and the neighboring orc tribes.

Hirata was not Dewa, was not adjacent to Dewa, but it was close. _Much_ closer than Supanku.

And for the first time in three years the dragon within Atsushi stirred. Pride and cunning and the promise of vengeance began to emerge, a dragon wanting only a worthy target to visit destruction upon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hobs: conquering the world one noise complaint at a time.
> 
> There wasn't time to write this vignette during the 2018 holiday break but I managed to scrape together time between inter-episode breaks over at _Connie Swap_. Given how big a deal the hobs are with their sprawling Khanate, I really wanted to spend some time with them.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed _Amalgam_ in general and Atsushi's trip to scenic Supanku and back specifically. Oh, and in case you're curious, yes, he is the same samurai that tangled with Vex's band of o-bakemonos over in Ch3.


End file.
